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The  Son  of  Don  Juan 


IN  SAME  SERIES. 

The  Lady  from  the  Sea. 

A  London  Plane  Tree,  and  other  Poems. 

Iphigenia  in  Delphi. 

Mireio. 

Lyrics. 

A  Minor  Poet. 

Concerning  Cats. 

A  Chaplet  from  the  Greek  Anthology. 

The  Countess  Kathleen. 

The  Love  Songs  of  Robert  Burns. 

Love  Songs  of  Ireland. 

Retrospect,  and  other  Poems. 

Brand. 

Mariana.     By  JOSE  ECHEGARAY. 

[/«  Preparation. 


The  Son  of  Don  Juan 


3  oACTS 


by 

JOSE   ECHEGARAY 


Translated  by  JAMES  GRAHAM 


CAMEO   SERIES 


T.FisberUnwin    PaternosterSq 
London  E.G.    MDCGCXCV. 

f 


*    t> 

Jose  Echegaray  :  a  Sketch. 

BY  JAMES  GRAHAM. 

THE  author  of  the  plays  here  done  into  English  was 
born  in  Madrid  on  the  Thursday  in  Holy  Week  of 
sixty-three  years  ago.  In  spite  of  a  fair  indication  to 
go  by,  his  friends  are  responsible  for  the  curious 
assertion  that  he  himself  does  not  know,  or  has  not 
taken  the  trouble  to  verify,  the  exact  date  of  his  birth. 
A  reference  to  familiar  sources  of  chronology  enables 
us  to  make  a  respectful  claim  to  better  information  on 
the  point  than  the  person  most  concerned.  So  the 
*i  day  of  Senor  Echegaray's  birth  may  be  fixed  precisely 
"  as  the  igth  of  April,  1832. 

The  first  three  years  of  the  dramatist's  life  were 
vv  passed  in  the  capital  of  Spain.     In   1835  he    was 
removed  from   Madrid  by  his  father,  who  had  just 
obtained  the  appointment  of  Professor  of  Greek  at 
"  the  Institute  of  Murcia.     It  was  in  Murcia  that  Jos£ 
s  received  the  rudiments  of  his  education ;  and  while 
X  still  a  child  he  entered  the  institute.    Here  he  studied 
Latin  under  Professor  Soriano,  Natural  History  under 
Angel  Girao,  and  Greek  under  his  own  father.    The 
-v.  boy  was  early  seen  to  be  gifted  with  brain-power  of 
<C  the  first  order.    And  being  of  a  docile  and  amiable 
ilature,  of  active  and  laborious  habits,  having  the 


6  JOSE    ECHEGARAY  : 

advantage  of  excellent  tutors,  and  being  under  the 
supervision  of  a  kind  and  cultured  father,  it  is  hardly 
to  be  wondered  at  that  his  progress  in  learning  was 
great  and  rapid.  From  the  first  he  displayed  that 
passion  for  mathematics  which  has  never  grown  cool 
in  him  throughout  life.  His  interest  in  literature 
itself  was  far  from  absorbing.  He  showed,  indeed, 
some  liking  for  novels  and  romantic  dramas.  For 
tragic  writers  of  the  stamp  of  Corneille  and  Racine  he 
could  not  conceal  his  disrelish,  though  the  fairness  of 
his  mind  would  never  permit  him  to  ignore  or  deny 
the  many  beauties  of  the  classic  drama.  When  he 
was  fifteen  years  old  he  became  Bachelor  of  Philo- 
sophic Science,  and  proceeded  to  Madrid  in  the 
month  of  October,  1847,  to  prepare  for  entrance  into 
the  Escuela  de  Caminos.  In  this  great  school  the 
mathematical  professor  was  Angel  Riguelme,  under 
whose  able  tuition  young  Echegaray  devoted  himself 
with  increased  ardour  to  his  favourite  study.  His 
affection  for  literature,  it  is  true,  had  been  gradually 
strengthening.  In  the  midst  of  his  graver  studies  he 
had  also  frequented  the  theatres.  But  he  never  failed 
to  return  with  an  almost  frenzied  delight  to  the  branch 
of  knowledge  which  afforded  such  food  to  his  voracious 
intellect.  To  use  his  own  language,  he  "  studied  the 
higher  mathematics  ferociously,  ravenously."  It  has 
been  maintained  that  in  all  the  records  of  Spanish 
scientific  history  no  one  has  ever  been  known  to 
devote  more  eager  and  profound  study  to  mathe- 
matics than  Jose"  Echegaray.  His  whole  spirit 
seemed  to  be  inextricably  identified  with  the  subject, 
to  be  indissolubly  enchained  to  it.  Mathematics 
became  for  him  the  most  absolute  of  necessities,  the 
supreme  of  joys.  The  following  is  an  experience 
related  by  a  fellow  student  of  Echegaray  when  both 


A    SKETCH.  7 

were  at  the  Escuela  de  Caminos.  "  Every  Saturday 
our  professor  of  mathematics  was  fond  of  setting  us 
problems  of  the  most  difficult  kind,  the  solutions  of 
which  we  were  expected  to  hand  in  on  the  Monday. 
On  a  certain  occasion  the  problem  given  out  to  us 
was  of  such  an  excruciatingly  intricate  nature  that  the 
huge  majority  of  the  class  had  to  give  up  all  hope  of 
mastering  it.  I  was  among  the  unsuccessful  ones.  I 
had  seen  Saturday,  Sunday,  pass  over  without  bring- 
ing me  nearer  to  a  glimpse  of  light.  On  the  Monday 
morning  I  was  all  at  once  inspired  with  the  idea  of 
going  to  Echegaray  to  obtain  some  hint  on  a  question 
which  could  not  have  failed  to  occupy  his  attention  at 
least  as  much  as  mine.  It  was  an  hour  before  the 
time  appointed  for  the  opening  of  the  Escuela  and  the 
delivering  up  of  the  answers.  I  set  out  for  Eche- 
garay's  lodging.  I  found  my  friend  in  his  room. 
The  curtains  were  drawn  and  the  shutters  were 
fastened  over  the  windows.  On  the  chimney-piece 
was  an  expiring  lamp.  On  the  edge  of  the  bed — the 
clothes  of  which  were  tossed  about  in  much  disorder 
— sat  Echegaray  in  his  nightshirt.  His  head  was 
bent,  and  he  was  in  an  attitude  of  deep  thought. 
The  noise  which  I  made  on  entrance  was  as  unsuc- 
cessful as  my  friendly  greeting  in  withdrawing  him 
from  his  abstraction.  He  confined  himself  to  raising 
his  hand  with  a  gentle  but  expressive  motion,  and  to 
saying  '  Hush  ! '  Suddenly  he  bounded  up,  un- 
dressed as  he  was,  and,  to  my  stupefaction,  exclaim- 
ing, { Here  it  is  ! '  hurried  across  to  a  small  board 
close  at  hand.  He  commenced  to  draw  lines  upon 
lines  and  circles  upon  circles,  and  dash  down  figures 
here  and  there,  till  at  length  he  said,  '  The  whole 
night  have  I  been  thinking  of  that  problem,  and — 
look  there  ! '  And  he  drew  back  to  show  me  the 


8  JOSri   ECHEGARAY : 

signs  all  fairly  traced,  the  operation  completed,  the 
problem  solved.  This  rehearsed  performance  he 
repeated  in  school  that  morning.  He  alone  did  it,  to 
the  admiration  and  almost  to  the  alarm  of  the  pro- 
fessor himself,  who,  I  think,  had  really  given  out  the 
problem  without  much  serious  thought  of  any  one 
even  attempting  a  solution." 

Echegaray  had  entered  the  Escuela  de  Caminos  in 
1848.  He  finished  his  course  of  study  in  1853, 
carrying  off  with  him  the  highest  honours  that  the 
institution  could  bestow,  and  being  placed  far  and 
away  the  first  of  all  his  contemporaries.  Meanwhile 
the  literary  and  dramatic  instinct  lay  almost  entirely 
asleep  in  him.  It  sprang  up  fitfully  now  and  then  in 
a  curiosity  to  assist  at  the  initiatory  performances  of 
pieces  by  first-rate,  second-rate,  and  even  third-rate 
authors.  Echegaray  was  always  held  up  as  an  exem- 
plary pupil ;  he  fulfilled  his  duties  at  school  with 
almost  exaggerated  obedience  and  scrupulousness  ; 
and  yet  once — only  once — he  ran  out  of  the  Escuela 
de  Caminos  without  permission  that  he  might  not  be 
too  late  to  buy  tickets  for  the  first  night  of  Ayala's 
drama,  "  El  Hombre  de  Estado."  On  leaving  the 
Escuela,  then,  in  1853,  Echegaray  had  already  seen 
many  dramas,  and  had  read  a  vast  number  of  French, 
English,  Italian,  and  Portuguese  novels,  ancient  and 
modern,  of  all  kinds.  But  he  had  not  himself  essayed 
anything  in  literature.  He  had  not  written  a  verse. 
The  making  of  verses  appeared  to  him  a  thing  quite 
foreign  to  his  nature.  In  this  the  enemies  of  Eche- 
garay are  affable  enough,  for  once,  to  agree  with  him ; 
and  they  remain  constant  to  their  belief  when  he  has 
long  since  had  ample  reason  for  changing  his  mind. 
The  mathematical  rigidity  and  angularity  of  much  of 
his  poetry,  say  these  enemies,  is  not  compensated  for 


A    SKETCH.  9 

even  by  the  daring  originality  of  his  conceptions,  his 
nobility  of  sentiment,  the  richness  of  his  imagery,  the 
splendour  of  his  language  ;  they  deny  to  him,  for 
instance,  the  exquisite  ease  and  melody  of  Espron- 
ceda,  the  bird-like  spontaneity  and  perhaps  fatal 
fluency  of  Jose*  Zorilla.  In  short,  during  these  days 
of  his  dawning  manhood,  Echegaray  had  never 
dreamed  of  being  a  poet,  still  less  a  dramatic  genius. 

The  requirements  of  his  profession  as  tutor  of 
mathematics,  to  which  he  now  formally  addressed 
himself,  took  him  to  various  important  cities — 
Granada,  Almeria,  Palencia — thus  keeping  him  away 
for  years  from  the  capital,  where  he  was  destined  to 
shine  in  whatever  he  undertook.  At  last  the  moment 
came  for  his  return  to  Madrid.  He  was  elected  Pro- 
fessor of  Mathematics  at  the  Escuela  de  Caminos,  at 
the  very  institution  where  he  had  achieved  such 
triumphs  as  a  boy  and  a  young  man,  and  where  he 
had  left  behind  him  so  many  pleasing  remembrances. 
And  now  his  professional  engagements,  and  the 
extraneous  tasks  which  he  voluntarily  imposed  on 
himself,  scarcely  left  him  time  to  breathe.  During 
the  thirteen  years  of  his  occupation  of  the  mathe- 
matical chair  an  immense  number  of  classes  had  the 
advantage  of  his  teaching  of  the  Infinitesimal  Cal- 
culus, Theoretical  and  Applied  Mechanics,  Hydro- 
statics, Curve-tracing,  Descriptive  Geometry  and  its 
applications,  Solid  Geometry,  and  so  on  into  the 
dimmest  heights  of  the  science.  During  this  time  he 
devoted  himself  to  Political  Economy,  to  Philosophy, 
to  Geology,  and  to  another  study,  entered  upon  with 
slight  equipment  by  many  men,  very  seriously  and 
with  all  his  faculties  by  this  man— Politics.  At  the 
Bolsa  and  the  Free  Exchange  Propaganda  he  de- 
livered orations  full  of  subtle  thought  and  sound 


IO  JOS&   ECHEGARAY  : 

doctrine  ;  in  the  Ateneo  he  spoke  enthusiastically  in 
favour  of  pure  democracy  ;  in  presence  of  the  Society 
of  Political  Economy  he  pronounced  numerous  dis- 
courses appropriate  to  their  several  occasions,  and 
distinguished  by  an  order  of  eloquence  which  was 
looked  upon  as  remarkable,  even  in  a  capital  where 
almost  every  one  seems  endowed  with  the  gift  of 
picturesque  and  ready  speech.  He  published  different 
articles  in  the,  Economzsta,  La  Razon,  and  other 
periodicals — it  seeming  impossible  that  he  should 
give  his  attention  to  multitudinous  labours  of  this 
kind,  and  at  the  same  time  devote  eight  or  ten 
hours  of  his  days  and  nights  to  private  lessons  in 
mathematics  and  to  public  lectures  on  other  subjects, 
among  which  were  Physics  and  Naval  and  Military 
Engineering.  Such  excessive  work  would  have 
paralysed  a  nature  less  vigorous  than  Echegaray's, 
but  in  the  continuance  of  a  portion  of  it  he  was 
unexpectedly  stopped.  The  private  lessons  which  he 
had  been  giving  would  have  raised  an  independence 
for  him.  They  were  prohibited.  Echegaray  was 
made  a  victim  of  the  administrative  despotism  to 
which  the  authorities  of  the  Escuela  de  Caminos  were 
compelled  to  bow.  He  applied  for  a  special  license  ; 
it  was  refused.  In  his  indignation  he  was  about  to 
leave  the  Escuela.  But  there  he  was  assured  that 
he  would  be  acting  ill-advisedly.  If  he  indeed  aban- 
doned his  career  in  defiance,  he  would  forfeit  all  his 
rights  as  a  tutor  in  the  public  schools  of  Spain.  The 
earnest  remonstrances  of  his  friends,  joined  to  the 
promptings  of  his  own  reason,  induced  him  to  relin- 
quish the  design.  His  most  powerful  motive  against 
precipitancy  was  that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  break 
with  the  work  of  his  whole  life.  He  was  the  soul  of 
the  Escuela.  He  had  become  indispensable,  alike  to 


A    SKETCH.  II 

his  fellow  professors  and  to  his  pupils.  Mathematics 
consoled  him  for  all  his  trials,  and  to  them  he  con- 
tinued to  consecrate  himself  with  a  loving  fervour 
which  even  he  had  never  surpassed.  The  mathe- 
matical treatises  which  he  then  began  to  send  forth 
in  rapid  succession  from  the  press  will  not  be  readily 
allowed  to  die  by  the  scientific  world  of  Spain. 

Being  about  this  time  commissioned  by  the 
Spanish  Government  to  study  the  works  of  tunnel 
making  at  Mont  Cenis,  and  having  no  opportunity  of 
doing  so  at  leisure  on  his  arrival,  a  very  brief  inspec- 
tion sufficed  for  him  to  understand,  or  rather  to  guess, 
the  whole  of  the  internal  mechanical  arrangements  of 
the  perforators.  And,  thanks  to  this,  and  without 
bringing  away  with  him  sketches  or  plans  of  any  sort, 
he,  on  his  return  to  Spain,  drew  up  a  memorial  with 
the  most  detailed  description — a  description  subse- 
quently proved  accurate  in  all  essential  particulars — 
of  the  mechanism  and  procedure  employed  in  the 
enterprise. 

All  this  while  there  had  been  nothing  in  Eche- 
garay's  tastes  or  performances  that  gave  evidence  of 
the  poet,  the  dramatist,  or  even,  in  any 'distinct  form, 
of  the  man  of  letters.  His  literary  works,  or  rather 
such  works  of  his  as  had  even  a  suspicion  of  literary 
flavour  about  them,  had  been  thus  far  confined  to 
certain  political  orations,  to  articles  on  Political 
Economy,  to  publications  on  Mathematics,  and  to  a 
humorous  little  sketch  entitled,  "The  Comet,  or  a 
Carnival  Joke,"  which  appeared  in  a  Madrid  news- 
paper. Echegaray's  partiality  for  the  reading  of 
novels  and  for  the  frequenting  of  theatres  was  the 
same.  Still  there  was  no  awakening  within  him  of 
any  expressed  ambition  to  write  in  emulation  of  those 
whose  productions  he  admired  as  a  spectator. 


1 2  JOS6  ECHEGARAY  : 

Towards  the  year  1864  it  was  that  Josh's  brother 
Miguel,  then  a  mere  lad,  wrote  a  little  piece  in  one 
act  and  in  verse  entitled,  "  Cara  o  Cruz,"  which  was 
put  on  the  stage,  and  was  received  in  a  friendly 
manner.  And  Jose",  equally  startled  and  amused  at 
the  spectacle  of  his  boy  brother  writing  smooth  and 
harmonious  verse,  rapidly  acquired  the  conviction 
that,  after  all,  the  writing  of  verses  ought  to  have  no 
stupendous  difficulty  about  it.  He  did  not  long  delay 
an  experiment.  He  immediately  set  about  putting 
together  an  appalling  tragic  argument,  which  he  ver- 
sified with  tolerable  ease.  In  this  fashion  was  com- 
posed his  first  play.  He  kept  it  by  him  for  a  year. 
Having  in  the  meanwhile  dedicated  himself  with 
serious  and  characteristically  energetic  study  to  the 
whole  question  of  dramatic  writing,  he  drew  the  piece 
forth  and  read  it  a  second  time.  He  found  it  by  no 
means  equal  to  his  first  complacent  judgment  of  its 
merits.  He  at  once  chose  a  safer  hiding-place  for  it 
than  previously,  and  it  has  never  seen  the  light. 
Echegaray  was  becoming  more  and  more  immersed 
in  these  new  subjects  of  interest,  when  an  interruption 
came  in  the  most  notable  public  episode  of  his  life. 
The  revolution  of  1868,  and  the  flight  of  Isabella, 
launched  him  into  the  full  tide  of  politics.  His  known 
ability  naturally  fitted  him  for  the  playing  of  a  pro- 
minent part.  He  was  very  speedily  selected  for 
Cabinet  rank  in  the  newly-formed  Government.  He 
was  created  Minister  for  the  Colonies.  His  new 
duties,  entered  upon  and  sustained  with  vigour  and 
success,  removed  him  for  five  years  from  the  concerns 
of  literature  and  the  drama.  Towards  1873,  on  tne 
dissolution  of  the  Permanent  Commission  of  the 
Cortes,  Echegaray's  name  was  proscribed.  He  was 
in  imminent  danger  of  death.  He  escaped  to  France. 


A   SKETCH.  13 

Eventually  the  ban  was  taken  from  his  name,  and  his 
life  was  preserved,  through  the  commanding  influence 
of  Emilio  Castelar.  This  has  been  ever  since  grate- 
fully acknowledged  in  a  manner  which  does  credit 
alike  to  the  great  orator  and  the  great  dramatist. 

In  the  meantime,  during  his  comparatively  brief 
exile,  Echegaray  had  written  in  Paris  his  drama, 
"  El  Libro  Talonario."  It  is  the  first  of  his  pieces 
which  was  put  on  the  stage,  and  the  date  of  its  pro- 
duction is  February  18,  1874 — not  long  after  the 
author's  return  to  Spain.  Nothing  commonplace 
could  come  from  Echegaray,  yet  neither  in  style  nor 
in  argument  does  the  work  give  any  revelation  of  the 
future  greatness  of  the  writer.  Very  little  better  was 
the  reception  accorded  by  the  critics  of  Madrid  to  the 
second  performance  of  the  new  poet,  "  La  Esposa  del 
Vengador,"  also  produced  in  1874.  There  was  not 
one,  however,  who  failed  to  admit  the  numerous 
beauties  of  either  play.  The  third  effort,  "  La  Ultima 
Noche,"  again,  was  declared  to  be  a  chaotic  conjunc- 
tion of  graces  and  monstrosities  :  as  a  work  of  genius 
unimpeachable  ;  as  a  display  of  true  dramatic  quality, 
absurd. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  public  of  Madrid,  roused  to 
the  highest  pitch  of  interest  in  the  new  career  marked 
out  for  himself  by  the  celebrated  mathematician,  the 
ex-Cabinet  Minister,  the  returned  exile,  had  been 
receiving  one  after  the  other  of  his  dramas  with 
delight.  This  was  not  enough  for  a  man  of  such  iron 
will  as  Echegaray.  He  was  deliberately  bent  on 
subduing  his  critics.  His  three  first  dramas  had 
been  experiments.  He  had  been  merely  trying  his 
hand. 

On  the  1 2th  of  October,  1875,  was  produced  "  En 
el  puno  de  la  Espada."  The  play  was  welcomed  with 


J4  JOS6    ECHEGAKAY  : 

unanimous  and  boundless  enthusiasm.  The  irregular 
and  fiery  genius,  whose  only  enemy  seemed  to  be  his 
individual  rashness,  had  stepped  safely  aside  from 
down-rushing  avalanches  and  gaping  precipices,  had 
scaled  the  heights  reached  by  those  few  alone  whose 
names  will  live,  and  was  looking  down  in  security  and 
serenity  alike  on  admiring  critics  and  acclaiming 
public.  From  that  night  the  severest  judges  of  the 
Spanish  capital  recognised  that  there  had  come 
among  them  a  dramatist  of  the  first  rank.  Since 
that  night  Echegaray's  career  has  been  one  long 
triumphal  march,  his  path  strewn  with  flowers,  his 
eyes  rejoiced  with  the  smiles  of  countless  friends,  his 
ears  greeted  with  cries  and  songs  of  praise — and  envy. 

One  of  the  most  noted  peculiarities  in  the  onward 
course  of  Echegaray  is  the  mixture  of  patient  scorn 
and  fierce  energy  with  which  he  declines  to  look  upon 
difficulties  as  insurmountable.  Not  merely  in  the 
solution  of  a  hard  problem  in  mathematics,  or  in 
clearing  from  his  path  the  impediments  which  now 
make  him  rule  the  theatre  of  Spain  as  a  monarch,  does 
Echegaray  show  the  force  of  his  will.  The  rough  term 
in  which  Ancient  Pistol  sums  up  the  attributes  of  the 
Spaniard  of  Shakespeare's  time  could  not  be  more  ludi- 
crously applied  than  to  such  a  man  as  Jose  Echegaray. 

In  our  country  it  is  natural  to  conceive  that  we 
can  pay  no  higher  compliment  to  a  man  than  by 
proclaiming  him  to  be  even  as  one  of  ourselves. 
Mr.  Swinburne  recognises  —  and  with  infallible 
justice — "a  decisive  note  of  the  English  spirit  in 
Moliere,"  as  well  as  in  Rabelais.  In  one  way,  at 
least,  in  the  moral  if  not  in  the  intellectual  sense,  in 
his  resolution  to  ignore  defeat,  however  incongruous 
be  the  task  he  may  undertake,  there  appears  to  the 
observer  of  Echegaray's  career  something  strangely 


A    SKETCH.  15 

English.  Two  anecdotes  may  be  given,  alike  as  proofs 
of  his  almost  boundless  versatility,  and  of  his  constancy 
in  breaking  through  seemingly  impenetrable  obstacles. 
On  one  occasion,  he  being  in  a  drawing-room  with 
several  of  his  friends,  among  whom  was  a  philosophical 
critic  of  some  renown,  the  conversation  fell  upon 
German  philosophy.  Echegaray,  who  knew  little  of 
the  matter  discussed,  and  less  of  the  German  tongue, 
deemed  it  presumptuous  to  hazard  an  opinion  for  or 
against  the  thesis  advanced,  and  maintained  an 
absolute  silence.  Gradually,  however,  the  debate 
resolved  itself  into  a  dispute  as  to  the  possibility  of 
making  an  exhaustive  study  of  a  certain  school  of 
philosophy  within  a  relatively  short  period.  There 
can  hardly  be  a  more  modest  or  amiable  man  than 
Echegaray,  and  yet  the  mere  breathing  of  the  word 
"  impossibility "  has  been  known  at  times  to  rouse 
him  into  an  attitude  of  imperial  defiance  almost 
worthy  of  Caesar  or  Napoleon.  He  left  the  house 
with  the  secret  intention  of  proving  that  nothing  is 
difficult  to  a  man  with  clear  brain  and  indomitable 
purpose.  From  that  hour  he  devoted  himself  with 
patient  zeal  to  no  less  a  task  than  that  of  studying 
the  special  school  of  philosophy  just  argued  about  in 
the  very  fountains  from  which  it  emanated,  in  the 
original  text  of  the  German  authors  themselves. 
With  such  effect  did  he  apply  himself  that,  two 
months  later,  being  in  almost  the  same  company,  and 
the  conversation — as  the  narrators  will  have  it,  with 
the  usual  emphatic  pointing  to  coincidence— veering 
round  to  the  same  theme,  the  new  student  of  philo- 
sophy displayed  a  depth  of  discernment,  an  acuteness 
of  independent  thought,  a  readiness  of  argumentative 
resource,  a  fertility  of  citation  from  the  German 
language  itself,  which  confounded  the  listeners  ;  and 


1  6  osS  ECHEGARAY 


apart  from  the  Congratulations  on  his  new  linguistic 
acquirement,  there  was  an  unanimous  admission  that 
Echegaray  had  expressed  himself  on  the  subject  as  a 
master  in  the  midst  of  novices. 

Another  time  he  was  in  the  company  of  friends  who 
were  engaged  in  a  most  exhaustive  dissertation  on 
the  art  of  fencing.  Innumerable  were  the  experiences 
detailed  in  illustration  of  practice  with  the  sabre,  the 
sword,  and  the  foil.  Those  who  were  least  excited  by 
the  discussion  turned  now  and  then  to  Echegaray 
with  a  courteous  explanation  and  a  general  air  of 
respectful  apology  for  treating  of  matters  in  which  he 
could  take  no  conceivable  interest.  Echegaray,  in 
truth,  had  never  held  an  offensive  weapon  in  his  hand. 
Next  day,  however,  he  appeared  at  the  rooms  of  one 
of  the  best-known  fencing  masters  of  Madrid,  enrolled 
his  name  as  a  pupil,  and  took  his  first  lesson  instantly. 
There  are  living  eye-witnesses  who  tell  how,  three 
months  afterwards,  the  grave  mathematician,  the 
coming  lord  of  the  Spanish  drama,  in  a  desperate 
encounter  with  foils,  repeatedly  hit,  and  at  length 
actually  disarmed  his  fencing  master  himself,  amid 
the  intense  amazement  and  uproarious  enthusiasm  of 
bystanders,  who  counted  among  them  some  of  the 
most  expert  fencers  in  the  Spanish  capital. 

Echegaray  's  very  career  as  a  dramatist  might  in  a 
measure  be  described  as  a  gigantic  experiment  in  the 
art  of  vanquishing  difficulties,  an  elaborate  and  pro- 
longed tour-de-force.  He  was  a  spectator  of  his 
brother  Miguel's  boyish  and  successful  entrance  into 
the  domain  of  dramatic  poetry.  He  saw  nothing  to 
prevent  himself  from  following  in  the  same  path. 
His  own  prescription  for  writing  verse  is  concise,  and 
contains  a  justification  of  his  new  departure.  He 
sums  up  the  full  requirements  of  a  poet  in  "  A  little 


A    SKETCH.  17 

grammar,  a  little  imagination,  and  a  tolerable  ear 
for  music."  This  is  a  matter-of-fact  style  of  putting 
things  which  may  seem  rather  like  a  ruthless  tear- 
ing aside  of  the  veil  from  a  sanctuary  that  should 
never  be  revealed  to  profane  eyes.  The  great  un- 
published poets  whose  own  works  are  the  result  of 
the  purest  inspiration  will  resent  it  accordingly.  Yet 
there  is  reason  for  suspicion  that  Shakespeare  might 
have  expressed  himself  on  the  dread  mystery  in  some 
such  light-hearted  manner  as  Echegaray.  The 
Spanish  dramatist,  however,  omits  one  important 
condition  which  he,  at  least,  has  well  fulfilled.  He 
has  all  through  life  acted  up  to  the  letter  of  Carlyle's 
teaching  as  to  the  "perennial  nobleness  and  even 
sacredness  "  of  "  Work."  With  him  the  main  neces- 
sity in  all  the  ways  of  life  is  hard  labour,  untiring 
drill,  constant  self-perfection.  In  his  own  example 
he  seems  to  declare  that  even  poets  cannot  straightway 
claim  to  be  in  the  charmed  circle  of  Mascarille's 
"  gens  de  qualite""  qui  "  savent  tout  sans  avoir  jamais 
rien  appris." 

Perhaps  one  of  the  first  things  calculated  to  strike 
a  student  of  Echegaray  is  the^air  of  gloom  which 
overhangs  many  of  his  graver  dramasy  Instances 
might  be  given  in  which  a  combination  of  nearly  all 
the  elements  of  woe  and  despair,  frequently  leads  to  a 
catastrophe,  from  the  contemplation  of  which  others 
besides  the  mere  hysterical  reader  will  find  it  difficult 
to  turn  away  with  calmness.  Yet  this  writer  may,  in 
a  certain  sense,  be  said  to  have  in  him  something 
of  classic  delicacy  and  reserve  —  with  regard,  in 
especial,  to  scenes  of  death.  The  introduction  of 
death  upon  the  stage  seems  invariably  a  matter  of 
concern  to  him.  Not  that  it  is  ever  awkwardly 
shrunk  from.  Indeed,  when  used  as  a  last  resort, 


1 8  JOSfi    ECHEGARAY  : 

when  "  fear  has  had  laid  upon  it  as  much  as  it  can 
bear,"  "  when  life  is  weaned  and  wearied  till  it  is 
ready  to  drop,"  then  death  in  the  hands  of  Echegaray 
comes  forward  at  times  with  the  weight  of  an  almost 
overwhelming  consummation.  The  Spanish  drama- 
tist, in  short,  may  fairly  claim  a  portion  of  that 
pleasing  reverence  for  the  dead  which  all  true  artists 
have.  To  adduce  illustrations  which  must  appear  un- 
fashionable in  days  when  half  a  continent  may  be 
depopulated,  without  much  protest,  in  the  course  of  a 
single  volume.  The  author  of  "Guy  Mannering" 
and  the  author  of  "  Monte  Cristo,"  in  the  very  height 
of  the  gaiety,  the  gallantry,  the  majesty  of  their 
descriptions  of  their  own  and  former  times  ;  Dickens 
and  Thackeray,  in  the  full  flow  of  their  mocking 
indignation  or  their  lacerating  irony,  will  be  seen  all 
at  once  to  stop  short.  Their  looks  change.  Their 
tones  become  softened  and  their  eyes  downcast. 
They  uncover  their  heads  and  compel  us  to  do  the 
same.  For  they  have  led  us  into  the  presence  of  the 
dead ;  and  before  the  lowliest  or  the  loftiest  of  their 
fellows  —  Meg  Merrilies  or  the  Abbe*  Faria,  Betty 
Higden  or  Colonel  Newcome  —  these  rare  spirits 
incline  themselves  in  solemn  veneration. 

Of  Echegaray's  power  over  the  pulses  of  sorrow 
and  terror,  without  the  intervention  of  death,  an 
example  may  be  found  in  "  El  Hijo  de  Don  Juan." 
And  here,  perhaps,  a  few  words  may  not  be  out  of 
place,  even  in  view  of  Echegaray's  own  "  Prologue," 
as  to  the  true  source  of  this  drama.  That  it  was 
inspired  by  the  reading  of  Ibsen's  "  Ghosts,"  we  have 
the  Spaniard's  own  declaration.  But  were  it  permis- 
sible to  put  aside  the  fact  that  both  works  treat  of  the 
problem  of  heredity  in  its  most  hideous  and  harrowing 
form,  and  the  minor  circumstance  of  the  borrowing  of 


A    SKETCH,  i  19 

Oswald's  phrase, "  Mother,  give  me  the  sun  ! " — words 
which,  to    the    mind   of   Echegaray,   embody   such 
picturesque  and  profound  significance — Mr.  William 
Archer  himself  might  not   be  reluctant  to  admit  the 
essential  originality  of  the  Spanish  play.     The  truth 
is  that  "  El  Hijo  de  Don  Juan "  is  a  sombre  and 
relentless  satire  upon  the  real  national  hero  of  Spain, 
the  being  immortalised  by  Moli£re  and  Mozart,  and 
more  or  less  caricatured  in  the  cruder  imagination  of 
Jose"  Zorilla.    Don  Juan,  the  gamester,  the  libertine, 
the  duellist,  the  bully,  has  been  transported  from  the 
sixteenth  century  to   the  nineteenth.      He  is  in  en- 
tirely new  surroundings  and  has  become  in  a  measure 
reformed.    We  find  him  past  the  sixtieth  year  of  his 
age,  with  a  wife  whom  he  has  indeed  ill-treated,  but 
with  a  son  of  whom  he  never  tires  of  boasting.     The 
disorders  of  his  youth  have  left  him  with  none  the 
strongest  of  brains.    And  now  the  sins  of  the  parent, 
in  accordance  with  Echegaray's  unsparing  rule,  are 
visited  upon   the  child.      The  father's  own   mental 
weakness  is  developed  in  the  most  grim  and  terrible 
form  in  the  gifted  son.    And  so  the  flames  in  which  Don 
Juan  Tenorio  was  untimely  plunged,  are  rekindled  in 
the  hell  of  misery  and  remorse  with  which  the  heir  to 
his  shameless  renown  sees  the  final  overthrow  of  his 
boy's  intellect.     It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  the 
"Ghosts"  is  almost  bright  and  frolicsome  in  com- 
parison with  the  "  Son  of  Don  Juan."    Echegaray 
has    here    deliberately  chosen    colours  of   funereal 
blackness,  and  has  laid  them  on  with  little  regard  for 
the  feelings  of  the  sensitive  reader.     Ibsen  leads  us 
to  the  edge  of  his  own  "  Inferno,"  and  points  to  the 
pale  faces  of  those  whom  his  genius  has  condemned 
to  immortal  suffering  ;  but  he  hurries  us  aside  before 
we  have  time  to  become  giddy. ,  Echegaray  drags 


2O  JOS£   ECHEGARAY  : 

us  pitilessly  down  and  holds  us  fast,  while  in  our  very 
presence  his  victims  are  whirled  shrieking  past  us — 
borne  along  on  burning  winds,  or  stretched  in  agony 
on  the  rack.  Still  with  all  deductions,  the  gift  of 
true  impressiveness,  which  has  been  so  abundantly 
acknowledged  in  Ibsen,  will  scarcely  be  denied  to 
the  Spaniard  who  so  frankly  admits  the  influence 
of  the  Northern  master.  This  impressiveness  may 
be  set  down  to  pathological  causes,  to  the  un- 
wholesomeness  of  the  subject,  to  the  lugubrious 
moral  atmosphere  in  which  a  pessimist  like  Ibsen,  a 
teacher  of  Hebraic  sternness  like  Echegaray,  loves 
at  times  to  fold  himself  round.  But  whether  the 
effect  of  plays  of  this  kind  may  or  may  not  be 
illegitimate,  it  is,  perhaps,  within  its  peculiar  limits, 
entirely  unexampled.  Plays  of  high  name,  plays  filled 
with  scenes  of  violence,  with  the  ring  and  storm  of 
battle,  with  midnight  murder,  with  death  in  its  worst 
forms,  might  be  placed  for  comparison  beside  the 
"  Son  of  Don  Juan."  And  though  there  is  not  a  death, 
not  a  blow  struck  from  beginning  to  end  of  the 
Spanish  drama,  such  plays,  with  all  their  accumula- 
tions of  misery  and  ferocity,  might  be  found  to  yield 
in  the  element  of  sheer  horror  to  the  spectacle  of  the 
brilliant  Lazarus,  the  poet,  the  dramatist,  the  coming 
glory  of  Spain,  waking  from  a  trance  under  the 
anguished  eyes  of  his  father,  his  mother,  his  betrothed, 
and  bursting  into  the  ravings  of  a  hopeless  madman. 

Of  Echegaray's  use  of  dramatic  resources  when  he 
indeed  brings  death  upon  the  stage,  a  few  examples 
may  be  quoted.  In  "  El  Gran  Galeoto  "  the  sudden  ex- 
posure of  the  body  of  Julian  to  his  unforgiven  wife. 
In  "  Mariana  "  the  bloody  sacrifice  of  the  heroine — 
in  presence  of  her  real  lover — by  the  husband  whom 
she  loathes  and  defies.  Lover  and  husband  stand 


A   SKETCH.  21 

armed  over  the  corpse  ;  but  the  stage  is  not  therefore 
converted  into  a  shambles ;  we  are  merely  left  to  con- 
jecture that  the  two  desperate  men  confronting  each 
other  will  not  long  survive  the  woman  who  has 
coloured  in  such  sinister  fashion  the  lives  of  both. 
Another  example,  more  openly  verging  on  the  melodra- 
matic, may  be  encountered  in  an  earlier  drama  than 
these,  "  En  el  seno  de  la  Muerte."  Here  is  one  of  the 
rare  instances  in  which  Echegaray  has  chosen  a  purely 
romantic  period  for  the  scene  of  his  play.  A  husband, 
treacherously  wronged  by  the  brother  and  the  wife 
whom  he  had  almost  equally  loved,  contrives  his 
revenge.  He  locks  himself  and  the  two  culprits  in 
the  family  mausoleum,  of  which  he  alone  has  the  key 
and  he  alone  knows  the  secret.  He  does  not  ignore, 
they  do  not  ignore,  the  fact  that  there  is  no  escape  for 
any  one  of  them.  After  a  painful  scene  of  reproach, 
at  the  end  of  which  the  traitor  brother  kills  himself, 
the  husband  first  throws  the  key  which  had  locked 
them  in,  then  the  torch  which  had  illumined  the 
dismal  magnificence  of  their  surroundings,  down  a 
deep  cavity  which  yawns  between  the  monuments. 
Finally,  in  utter  darkness",  he  stabs  himst'f  dead  at 
his  wife's  feet ;  and  the  curtain  falls  amicst  an  un- 
definable  impression  of  haunting  dismay  at  the  alter- 
natives of  fate  before  the  lonely  survivor.  V 

For  obvious  reasons  Echegaray  has  b^-n  here 
referred  to  in  connection  with  Ibsen.  Whether  an 
apology  for  such  a  conjunction  of  names  mi^ht  in 
reason  be  demanded  by  the  most  loyal  of  Ibsenites  is 
doubtful,  under  the  present  conditions  of  criticism.  It 
cannot  but  be  a  source  of  relief  to  any  one  helping  to 
introduce  a  new  author  to  the  public,  that  the  process 
of  comparison  has  been  simplified  of  late ;  that  the 
qualifications  exacted  from  competitors  are  drawn  up 


22  JOSE    ECHEGARAY  i 

in  a  spirit  of  charming  leniency  ;  that  the  certificate 
of  immortality  is  made  more  than  ever  easy  of  attain- 
ment. Some  years  ago  a  writer  thought  fit,  not  only 
without  seeming  sense  of  shame,  but  with  the  com- 
placent air  of  one  who  sees  "  a  new  planet  swim  into 
his  ken,"  to  couple  the  names  of  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling 
and  Charles  Dickens.  It  must  have  been  under  the 
inspiration  of  such  criticism  as  this  that  Shakespeare 
was  immediately  dethroned — for  at  least  the  hundredth 
time — and  once  again  at  the  hands  of  "  our  lively 
neighbour  the  Gaul."  Corneille,  Racine,  and  Victor 
Hugo  were  allowed  to  slumber  tranquilly  in  their 
graves,  and  it  was  admitted  on  behalf  of  England — by 
the  Paris  Figaro — that  the  author  of  "  Othello  "  was 
surpassed  by  M.  Maurice  Maeterlinck.  Even  under 
these  encouraging  circumstances,  however,  it  will  not 
be  here  contended  that  Senor  Echegaray  shows  in  his 
work  anything  comparable — "et  oserai-je  le  dire," 
as  M.  Mirbeau  rvould  say — "  superieure  en  beaute  a 
ce  qu'il  y  a  de  plus  beau  dans  Shakespeare."  It  might 
be  suggested  tW.it  "Mariana" — Senor  Echegaray's 
masterpiece  in/female  creation  —  would  have  been 
readily  accept/id  as  a  companion  with  Charmian  and 
Iras  in  attendance  on  the  most  complex  of  all  heroines 
— Cleopatra.  Further  than  this  it  will  not  be  safe 
to  go. 

Echer  aray  may  be  noted  as  displaying,  even  in  the 
following  mournful  drama,  a  genuine  and,  as  a  rule, 
unforced  sense  of  humour.  In  his  comic  passages, 
ho  .vever,  he  has  a  fault  which  he  shares  with  Shakes- 
peare— and  the  editor  of  Punch.  He  is  a  remorseless 
punster. 

This  poet's  genius,  as  may  have  been  remarked,  burst 
into  bloom  at  a  time  beyond  the  midsummer  of  life. 
He  was  forty-two  before  his  first  drama  was  produced. 


A    SKETCH.  23 

That  is  twenty-one  years  ago.  Since  then  his  activity 
has  never  known  exhaustion.  He  is  now  the  author  of 
some  fifty  plays.  There  are  particular  years  among 
the  past  twenty-one  in  the  course  of  which  he  has  put 
upon  the  stage  as  many  as  four  dramas,  not  one  of 
which  is  carelessly  written,  though  one  imitation  from 
the  German,  "El  Gladiador  de  Ravena,"  was  com- 
menced and  completed  within  three  days.  During 
these  twenty-one  years,  indeed,  he  appears  to  have 
determined  on  making  up  for  what,  in  other  important 
respects,  had  certainly  not  been  lost  time.  Civil 
engineers  have  found  and  still  find  it  to  their  advan- 
tage to  consult  him  on  points  which  are  the  special 
study  and  occupation  of  their  lives.  He  has  published 
three  formidable  volumes  on  the  "  Modern  Theories 
of  Physics."  A  well-known  book  of  his  has  appeared 
on  sub-marine  vessels  of  war.  He  has  lectured  on 
Political  Economy  and  Geology  with  equal  success. 
He  is  admitted  by  Spaniards  to  be  the  chief  of  their 
own  mathematicians  ;  they  further  claim  for  him  the 
honour  of  being  one  of  the  first  mathematicians  in  the 
world.  He  is  an  orator  who  has  won  the  applause  of 
Castelar  himself.  There  were  only  wanting  his  labours 
as  a  poet  and  a  dramatist  to  set  the  seal  upon  a  career 
of  almost  universal  aptitude.  Those  labours  have 
earned  for  him  a  renown  which  will  assuredly  not  be 
allowed  to  die  in  his  own  country. 

Be  the  praise  high  or  low,  in  view  of  the  condition 
of  Spanish  literature  between  the  seventeenth  century 
and  the  nineteenth,  Spaniards  declare  that  for  more 
than  two  hundred  years  their  drama  has  not  brought 
forth  a  serious  rival  to  this  man.  And  there  can  hardly 
be  a  doubt  that,  in  any  selection  of  names  of  the 
greatest  dramatists  ever  sprung  from  Spain,  Lope  de 
Vega  and  Calderon  de  la  Barca  will  find  the  place 
nearest  to  themselves  occupied  by  Jose  Echegaray. 


TWO  WORDS  BY  WAY  OF  PROLOGUE. 


T  N  trying  to  interpret  the  idea  of  my  last  drama, 
*  "The  Son  of  Don  Juan,"  the  critics  have  said 
many  things.  That  the  idea  was  the  same  as  that 
which  inspired  Ibsen  in  his  celebrated  work  entitled 
"  Gengangere."  That  the  passions  which  it  sets  in 
movement  are  more  natural  to  the  countries  of  the 
North  than  to  our  sunnier  climes  :  that  it  deals  with 
the  problem  of  hereditary  lunacy.  That  it  discusses 
the  law  of  heredity.  That  it  is  sombre  and  lugubrious, 
with  no  other  object  than  that  of  arousing  horror. 
That  it  is  a  purely  pathological  drama.  That  it  con- 
tains nothing  more  than  the  progress  of  a  case  of 
lunacy.  That  from  the  moment  when  it  is  perceived 
that  Lazarus  will  go  mad,  the  interest  of  the  work 
ceases,  and  nothing  remains  but  to  follow  step  by  step 
the  shipwreck  of  the  poor  creature— and  so  forth.  I 
think  that  all  this  is  but  a  series  of  lamentable  equivo- 
cations on  the  part  of  the  great  and  little  judges  of 
the  dramatic  art.  The  idea  of  my  drama  was  not  one 
of  those  mentioned.  Its  motive  is  very  different,  but 
I  shall  not  explain  it.  Why  should -ULJ  In  all  the 
scenes  of  my  work,  in  all  its  personages,  in  nearly  all 
its  phrases  it  is  explained.  Moreover,  to  explain  it 
2  as 


26  PROLOGUE. 

would  be  dangerous ;  it  might  be  imagined  that  my 
proposal  was  to  defend  the  poor  Son  of  Don  Juan 
under  the  pretext  of  exposing  the  central  idea  from 
which  he  drew  birth.     I  never  defend  my  dramas  ; 
when  I  write  their  last  word  I  leave  them  to  their  fate. 
I  neither  defend  them  materially  nor  morally.     I  finish 
a  drama,  I  give  it  to  the  management  of  a  theatre,  it  is 
put  on  the  stage,  it  is  liked  or  not  liked,  according  to 
the  favour  of  God.     The  management  does  what  is 
most  suited  to  its  interests,  without  my  interference  : 
the  actors  represent  it  as  they  can,  almost  always  very 
well,  the  public  pronounces  its  judgment  in  one  sense 
or  another,  according  to  its  feelings,  and  the  critics 
unbosom  themselves  to  their  satisfaction^     I  neither 
wish  nor  ought,  ifconly  from  good  taste,  to  defend  my 
new  drama ;  bujfit  contains  one  phrase  which  is  not 
mine,  which  is  Ibserts ;  and  that  phrase  I  must  defend 
energetically,  for  I  consider  it  one  of  extraordinary 
beauty  :  "  Mother,  give  me  the  sun,''  says   Lazarus. 
And  this  phrase,  simple,  infantile,  almost  comic,  en- 
folds a  world  of  ideas,  an  ocean  of  sentiments,  a  hell 
of  sorrows,  a  cruel  lesson,  a  supreme  warning  to  society 
and  to  the  family  circle.     Thus  I  look  at  it.    A  gene- 
ration devoured  by  vice ;  which  bears  even  in  its 
bones  the  virus  engendered  by  impure  love  ;  with  a 
corrupted  blood  which  in  its  course  drags  along  organ- 
isms of  corruption  mingled  with  its  ruddy  globules, 
this  generation  goes  on  falling  and  falling  into  the 
abysses  of  idiocy  :  the  cry  of  Lazarus  is  the  last  twilight 
of  a  reason  which  founders  in  the  eternal  blackness  of 
imbecilityj  And  at  the  same  time  nature  awakes  and 
the  sun  comes  forth — another  twilight  which  will  very 
soon  be  all  light.    And  the  two  twilights  meet  and 
cross  and  salute  each  other  with  the  salutation  of 
everlasting    farewell    at    the    close    of   the    drama. 


PROLOGUE.  27 

Reason,  which  is  precipitated  downward,  impelled  by 
the  corruption  of  pleasure.  The  sun,  which  springs 
upward  with  immortal  flames,  impelled  by  the  sublime 
forces  of  nature.  Below,  human  reason  which  has 
come  to  an  end  ;  above,  the  sun  which  begins  a  new 
day.  "  Give  me  the  sun,"  says  Lazarus  to  his  mother. 
Don  Juan  likewise  asked  for  it  from  between  the 
tresses  of  the  woman  of  Tarifa.  On  this  point  there  is 
much  to  be  said  :  it  gives  room  for  much  thought. 
For,  in  truth,  if  our  society.  .  .  .  But  what  the  devil 
are  these  philosophical  speculations  that  I  am  plung- 
ing into  ?  Let  every  man  compose  such  for  himself 
as  best  he  may,  and  let  him  clamour  for  the  sun  or 
beg  for  the  horns  of  the  moon,  or  ask  for  what  suits 
his  appetite.  Does  nobody  understand  or  take  an 
interest  in  these  matters  ?  What  then  ?  This,  at 
most  would  prove  that  the  modern  Don  Juan  con- 
tinues to  bequeath  many  sons  to  the  world,  though 
they  have  not  the  talent  of  Lazarus.  Let  us  give  a 
respectful  greeting  to  the  sons  of  Don  Juan. 

JOSE  ECHEGARAY. 


CARMEN. 

DONA  DOLORES. 

PACA. 

TERESA. 

LAZARUS. 

DON  JUAN. 

DON  TIMOTEO. 

DOCTOR  BERMUDEZ. 

JAVIER. 

DON  NEMESIO. 

First  represented  March  29,  1892. 


{Rights  of  adaptation  atui  stage  representation  reserved.} 


ACT  I. 

The  scene  represents  a  room  for  business  or  study.  It 
is  mounted  in  elegant  yet  severe  taste,  with  some- 
thing of  a  worldly  style,  indicated  by  some  artistic 
object  which  betrays  predilections  of  that  kind. 
On  the  left  of  the  spectator  is  a  very  light  and 
charming  tea-table,  to  accommodate  three  or  four 
persons  j  upon  the  table  is  a  candle  or  night-light 
with  a  bright-coloured  shade  ;  and  surrounding 
it  are  three  small  arm-chairs  or  cushioned  seats 
and  smoking  chairs .  On  the  right  is  a  desk — not 
•very  large,  though  massive  and  sober  in  style : 
behind,  a  chair  or  writing  stool.  At  the  side  of 
the  desk  a  high  stool  or  better  still  an  arm-chair. 
Upon  the  desk  a  lighted  lamp  with  a  dark  shade. 
Also  on  the  desk,  in  a  framed  easel,  the  photograph 
of  CARMEN.  On  the  left  first  wing  a  balcony,  to 
the  right  a  fireplace  with  a  very  bright  fire :  at 
one  side  a  large  portative  screen.  Over  the  doors 
and  the  balcony  thick,  sober-hued  curtains.  A 
door  in  the  background,  and  a  door  at  either  side. 
If  it  be  possible,  there  should  also  be  in  the  back- 
ground a  small  bookcase,  dark  and  rich  :  at  the 
left  forming  a  pendant,  a  cabinet,  dark  like  the 
bookcase,  and  full  of  objects  of  art.  If  this  be  im- 
~possible^  two  equivalent  pieces  of  furniture.  In 
short,  a  room  which  gives  evidence  of  rich  though 


32  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

not  opulent  possessors,  andjwhich  above  all  denotes 
^Jythe  contrast  of  two  tastes: — the  one  austere,  tht 

'.        -       _  .-.     . ^^^^^ rrw»»i  y __ _ ^ 

other  gay  and  worldly.     It  is  night. 


SCENE. 

DON  JUAN,  and  DON  TIMOTEO,  DON  NEMESIO  dis- 
covered seated  round  the  tea-table,  drinking  strong 
liqueurs  and  smoking.  The  three  are  old,  but 
give  token  of  different  types :  the  three  bear  the 
stamp  of  life-long  self-indulgence.  It  is  recognised, 
however,  that  DON  JUAN^<M  been  a  man  of  gaiety 
and  fashion. 

JUAN.  Timoteo  ! 

TIM.  What  ? 

JUAN.  I  have  a  suspicion. 

TIM.  What  about  ? 

JUAN.  That  we  are  getting  old. 

TIM.  How  have  you  got  to  know  ? 

JUAN.  I'll  tell  you  :  there  are  symptoms.  When 
the  weather  changes  all  my  joints  are  sore.  When  I 
wish  to  stretch  out  this  leg  merrily,  it  entails  labour 
on  me,  and  in  the  end  it  is  the  other  leg  which  moves. 
Moreover  my  sight  is  failing  :  when  I  see  a  dark  girl 
in  the  street,  she  looks  fair  to  me ;  and  if  a  girl 
happens  to  be  fair,  she  becomes  so  obscured  as  to 
turn  dark  before  my  eyes. 

NEM.  That's  weakness ;  you  should  take  a  tonic. 
(Drinks.) 

JUAN.  My  stomach  cannot  endure  alcohol  now :  I 
drink  out  of  compliment ;  but  I  know  that  it  does  me 
harm.  » 

TIM.  Because  it  is  not  the  alcohol  of  our  time. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  33 

NEM.  This  is  corrosive  sublimate  alcoholised. 

TIM.  It  is  the  alcohol  which  has  grown  old. 
( Walks  about  jauntily.}  I  feel  young  still — Ah  ! 

JUAN.  What's  the  matter  ? 

TIM.  While  simply  moving  I  seem  to  have  dis- 
jointed my  whole  vertebral  column.  The  devil,  the 
devil ! 

NEM.  (drinking  calmly).  Something  or  other  will 
have  got  dislocated. 

JUAN.  Let  us  undeceive  ourselves :  we  are  nearing 
the  City  of  Old  Age.  By  the  life  of  life,  how  short  is 
life  1  (Strikes  the  chair  with  his  fist.}  Ah  ! 

TIM.  What  ails  you? 

JUAN.  A  pain  in  the  elbow — and  in  this  shoulder. 

NEM.  The  weather  ;  it's  damp.    (Drinks.} 

TIM.  Juanito,  you  have  never  been  very  strong. 

JUAN.  I  have  not  been  ?  I  have  not  been  ?  I  have 
been  stronger  than  you  all.  For  twenty-four  hours 
running  I  have  played  cards  :  for  three  days  running 
I  have  been  shut  up  with  Pacorro  and  Luis  emptying 
bottles  :  and  my  patron  Saint  Juan  Tenorio,  from  the 
heaven  where  he  dwells  in  company  with  Dona  Inez, 
will  have  seen  how  I  have  borne  myself  in  amorous 
enterprises.  You,  on  the  other  handj  have  been 
nothing  more  than  the  braggadocios  of  vice.  Away 
with  such  lay-figures. 

TIM.  We  don't  deny  that  you  have  been  a  greater 
madcap  than  anybody  else  ;  but  strong — what's  called 
a  strong  man — that  you  have  not  been. 

NEM.  You  have  not  been  that — confess. 

JUAN.  What  have  I  to  confess  ? 

TIM.  Something  has  happened  to  you  which  never 
happened  to  any  one  else. 

JUAN.  What  happened  to  me  ? 

TIM.  In  order  to  get  your  spine  straightened  you 


34  THK  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

had  to  be  put  in  a  casing  of  paste,  and  they  used  to 
hang  you  up  by  the  neck  twice  a  day. 

JUAN.  But  that  was  because  we  were  playing  at 
single  stick  in  the  Plaza  de  Toros,  and  they  broke 
two  of  my  ribs  ;  that  might  happen  to  anybody. 

TIM.  No,  no  :  you  were  not  like  us.  Do  you  re- 
member, Nemesio  ?  "  Where  is  Juanito  ?  "  "  In 
bed."  "  Where  is  Juanito  ? "  "  At  Panticosa." 
"Where  is  Juanito?"  "At  Archena."  "Where  is 
Juanito  ?  "  "  Shut  up  in  his  casing."  "  Where  is 
Juanito?"  "At  this  moment  they  must  be  hanging 
him."  Ha,  ha  ! 

TIM.  and  NEM.  laugh.    DON  JUAN  looks  at  them 
angrily. 

•  JUAN.  Don't  laugh  very  loud,  or  we  shall  have  a 
general  breaking  up.  I  have  been  a  man  and  you 
two  have  been  pitiful  fellows.  You  (to  TIM.),  got 
married  at  forty  :  you  locked  yourself  up  in  a  corner 
of  this  town  with  your  wife,  and  there  was  an  end  of 
Timoteo.  You  (to  NEM.),  flying  like  a  coward  from 
the  storms  of  the  world,  took  refuge  in  Arganda, 
where  you  drink  each  year  the  vintage  of  the  year 
before.  I,  on  the  other  hand  (speaking  "with  proud 
emphasis)^  I — it  is  true  that  I  also  got  married — at 
forty-two  ;  but  that's  no  proof  of  weakness.  If  Don 
Juan  Tenorio  had  been  allowed  the  time,  he  would 
have  married  Dona  Inez,  and  indeed  there  is  a  rumour 
that  -they  celebrated  their  mystic  wedding  in  heaven. 
But  I,  the  other  Don  Juan,  got  married  like  a  man, 
like  a  free  citizen  ;  yet  I  did  not  thereupon  abandon 
the  field  of  honour.  I  am  myself  at  home,  myself 
abroad,  at  nine  in  the  convent,  at  ten  in  this  street. 
Well,  then  I  had  my  Lazarus  !— Eh  !— There's  a  lad ! 
That's  what  it  is  to  have  a  son. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  35 

TIM.  God  help  me,  with  your  glorious  triumph  ! 
Jump  into  the  street,  and  you  won't  see  a  neighbour 
who  is  not  the  son  of  somebody.  Each  individual  has 
a  father. 

NEM.  One  father  at  least. 

JUAN.  Yes,  but  I  was  the  libertine ;  I  was  the  man 
that  drained  the  cup  of  pleasure  and  the  cask  from  the 
wine-cellar :  the  invalid  of  the  orgie.  "  That  fellow 
is  consumptive,"  they  used  to  say.  "  That  fellow  will 
die  some  morning,"  you  thought.  And  suddenly  I 
became  restored  to  life  in  Lazarus.  Lazarus  is  my 
resurrection.  And  how  robust  and  strong  he  is.  And 
what  talent  he  has  !  A  prodigy  —  a  Byron,  an 
Espronceda,  an  Edgar  Poe — a  genius.  That's  not 
what  I  alone  say :  you  have  it  written  in  all  the 
journals  of  Madrid. 

TIM.  Yes,  the  lad  is  able. 

NEM.  He  is  able. 

JUAN.  Well,  now,  frankly — he  who  has  led  the  life 
that  I  have  led — he  who  while  saying :  "  I  must  rest 
for  a  time,"  has  a  son  like  Lazarus :  that  man — is  he 
not  a  man,  indeed  ? 

TIM.  Fine  subject  of  rejoicing  for  a  Tenorio. 

JUAN.  What  subject  ? 

TIM.  This  of  yours.  Does  it  not  come  to  this  that 
you  are  the  father  of  a  genius  ? 

JUAN.  And  what  then,  dotards?  Strength  is 
strength,  and  becomes  transformed  :  you  don't  under- 
stand this.  I  make  no  doubt  that  I  had  all  the  genius 
of  Lazarus  concealed  in  some  corner  of  my  brain  ; 
but  as  I  gave  it  neither  time  nor  opportunity  it  could 
not  exhibit  itself.  At  last  it  grew  tired  of  wait- 
ing, and  it  said :  "  Eh  !  I  am  going  with  the  son, 
because  with  the  father  I  can  make  no  headway." 
(Laughing.) 


36  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

TIM.  Don't  delude  yourself,  Juanito.  The  talent  of 
Lazarus,  for  indeed  he  seems  to  have  great  talent,  is 
not  inherited  from  you :  he  must  have  derived  it  from 
his  mother.  /The  paternal  heritage  will  have  been 
some  rheumatism,  some  affection  of  the  nervesV 

NEM.  The  sediments  of  pleasure  and  the  dregs  of 
alcohol.  (Drinks.) 

JUAN.  Blockheads  I  I  went  through  my  school- 
days badly,  and  I  lived  worse  ;  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  me. 

TIM.  Quite  a  genius  frittered  away  ori  a  lost  soul. 

JUAN.  It  may  be  so. 

NEM.  And  by  what  did  you  recognise  this  some- 
thing? 

TIM.  When  was  it  ? 

NEM.  And  where  ? 

JUAN.  It  was  on  awaking  from  a  drunken  bout. 

TlM.  Now  that  you  are  going  to  ascend  to  the 
sublime  don't  say  a  drunken  bout. 

JUAN.  Well  then,  on  arising  from  an  orgie. 

NEM.  That's  well.  "To  Jarifa  in  an  Orgie," 
Espronceda.  (Drinks.) 

JUAN.  Yes,  senor,  the  very  thing.  I  once  felt  that 
which  neither  of  you  ever  experienced. 

NEM.  Tell  us,  tell  us.  This  ought  to  be  curious. 
Another  little  glass,  Timoteo. 

TIM.  Come.  To  the  health  of  the  disappointed 
genius.  (Coughing.) 

NEM.  Of  the  unsuccessful  genius.    (Drinks.) 

DON  JUAN  is  thoughtful. 

TIM.  Begin. 

JUAN.  You  remember  the  season  we  passed  at 
my  country  seat  in  Sevilla,  in  the  year — in  the 
year ? 


THE  Sox  OF  DON  JUAN.  37 

TINT.  The  year  I  don't  recollect— but  very  well 
do  I  remember  the  country-house,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Guadalquivir,  with  an  Oriental  saloon,  divans, 
carpets — those  famous  carpets. 

NEM.  True,  true  !  I  was  always  walking  on  them. 
Aniceta,  the  little  gipsy — you  remember? — used  to 
cry  out,  "  I  am  sinking,  I  am  sinking." 

TIM.  True,  true  I  and  as  she  was  so  little  she  used 
to  sink  out  of  sight,  really. 

NEM.  Delightful  time.  Don  Juan's  country  seat — 
so  we  called  it. 

TIM.  What  I  liked  was  that  running  balcony  or 
gallery,  or  whatever  it  was.  What  a  view  !  The 
Guadalquivir  !  And  it  looked  towards  the  East — -you 
saw  the  sun  risej— it  was  enchanting.  (To  JUAN.) 
Have  you  fallen  asleep  ? 

JUAN.  I  ?  I  never  sleep.  That's  what  I  should 
like — to  sleep.  For  this  is  the  way  I  pass  the  night — 
with  a  wrench  of  this  nerve  and  a  wrench  at  the  other. 
The  little  pain  which  is  in  the  neighbourhood  of  my 
elbow  goes  for  a  walk.  My  cough  appears  before  it 
and  says,  "  Good  evening,  neighbour."  My  head 
cries  out,  "  I  am  going  to  waltz  for  a  while,  stand 
away  there."  And  my  stomach  heaves,  "No,  for 
God's  sake  ;  I  shall  be  sea-sick."  Sleep,  indeed  ! 
It's  ten  years  since  I  have  slept. 

NEM.    But  you  are  not  telling  us  the  story. 

JUAN.  What  story  ? 

TIM.  Why,  man,  that  about  the  fiery  outbreak  of 
genius.  When  you  learned  that  you  had  something 
inside  here.  (Touching  his  forehead.}  Something 
sublime,  eh  ? 

NEM.  I  should  think  so,  corrosive  sublimate.  Ha, 
ha  !  Another  little  glass. 

TlM.  Come.     However,  we  are  left  at  where  you 


38  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

got  to  know  once  upon  a  time  that  you  were  a  larva- 
like  genius — like  the  pulmonary  larvae. 

JUAN.  I  got  to  know  it.  There's  nothing  to  laugh 
at. 

NEM.  In  your  country  seat  by  the  Guadalquivir  ? 

JUAN.  The  very  same. 

TIM.  In  the  Oriental  saloon — the  one  with  the 
divans,  the  balcony  looking  towards  the  East  and  the 
Persian  carpet  ? 

JUAN.  Exactly. 

TIM.  During  a  night  of  orgies  ? 

JUAN.  No — next  morning — on  awaking. 

TIM.  On  awaking  from  the  orgie  !  "  Bring  hither, 
Jarifa,  bring  hither  thine  hand — come  and  place  it 
upon  my  brow  ! "  (Taking  the  hand oj "DON  NEMESIO.) 

NEM.  (^withdrawing  his  hand}.  Your  brow  is  all 
right.  Ha,  ha  !  Don't  make  me  laugh. 

TIM.  Then  look — thine  hand — a  pure  branch  of  the 
vine. 

JUAN.  Don't  you  want  to  hear  me  ? 

NEM.  I  should  think  so.     Tell  your  story. 

TIM.  But  you  must  tell  it  seriously,  solemnly, 
dramatically.  The  awaking  of  Don  Juan — after  a 
night  of  orgies. 

JUAN.  Then  here  goes. 

NEM.  and  TIM.  take  convenient  positions  for 
listening  to  him. 

It  was  a  grand  night — a  grand  supper.  There  were 
eight  of  us — each  with  a  partner.  Everybody  was 
drunk — even  the  Guadalquivir.  Aniceta  appeared  on 
the  gallery  and  began  to  cry  out,  "  Stupid,  insipid, 
waterish  river,  drink  wine  for  once  ! "  and  she  threw 
a  bottle  of  Manzanilla  into  it. 
TIM.  She  was  very  lively,  Aniceta.  She  once 


THK  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

threw  a  bottle  of  wine  at    my  head — but    it 
empty. 

NEM.  Your  head? 

TIM.  The     bottle.      Continue,     continue  — 
seriously — eh  ? 

JUAN.  Well,  I  was  lying  asleep  along  the  floor, 
upon  the  carpet,  close  to  a  divan.  And  on  the 
divan  there  had  fallen  by  one  of  the  usual  accidents, 
the  Tarifena — Paca,  the  Tarifena.  Nobody  noticed 
it,  and  on  the  divan  she  lay  asleep.  Amidst  her 
tossings  to  and  fro,  her  hair  had  become  loose — a 
huge  mass  !  and  it  fell  over  me  in  silky  waves — a 
great  quantity. 

NEM.  JtfoUike  Timoteo's.    (TIMOTEO  t's  bald.}  - 

JUAN.  Not  hTce  Timoteo's.  But  if  you  interrupt  me 
I  shall  lose  the  inspiration. 

TIM.  Continue— continue,  seriously,  Juanito. 

JUAN.  We  leave  off  at  where  I  was  asleep  on  the 
carpet,  when  the  loosened  hair  of  the  Tarifena  fell 
over  my  head  and  face,  enfolding  me  as  in  a  splendid  A^  ' 
black  mantle  of  perfumed  lace.  Would  you  like  any- 
thing more  serious"? 

TIM.  It  goes  well  so. 

NEM.  Keep  yourself  to  that  height.      , 

TIM.  To  the  height  of  the  carpet? 

NEM.  Each  one  mounts  to  the  height  of  which  he 
is  worthy.  Go  on. 

JUAN.  The  dawn  arriyed.     It  was  summer. 

TIM.  And  yet  it  rained. 

JUAN.  No,  my  dear  fellow,  a  delightful  morning  : 
the  balcony  open  :  the  East  with  splendid  curtains  of 
mist  and  of  little  red  clouds,  the  sky  blue  and  stain- 
less, a  light  more  vivid  kindling  into  flame  the  distant 
horizon. 

TIM.  So,  so — to  that  height. 


4°  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

NEM.  Very  poetical,  very  poetical — don't  fall  off. 

JUAN.  Slowly  the  crimson  globe  ascended.  I 
opened  my  eyes  wide,  and  I_jsaw_the  sun^  I  saw  it 
from  between  the  interwoven  tresses  of  the  Tarifena — 
it  inundated  me  with  its  light,  and  I  stretched  forth 
my  hand  instinctively  to  grasp  it.  Something  of  a 
new  kind  of  love,  a  new  desire  agitated  me.  Great 
brightness,  much  azure,  very  broad  spheres,  vague 
yet  burning  aspirations — for  something  very  beautiful. 
For  a  minute  I  understood  that  there  is  something 
higher  than  the  pleasure  of  the  senses  :  for  a  minute 
I  felt  myself  another  being.  I  wafted  a  kiss  to  the 
sun,  and  pulled  aside  in  anger  the  girl's  hair.  One 
lock  clung  about  my  lips — it  touched  my  palate  and 
gave  me  nausea.  I  flung  away  the  tress — I  awoke 
the  Tarifena— and  vice  dawned  through  the  remains 

Lof  the  orgie,  like   the   sun  through  the  vapours  of 
the  night,  its  mists  and  its  fire-coloured  clouds. 
-  TlM.  Good  for  Juanito.    We  are  moved,  profoundly 
moved. 

NEM.  Unfathomably  moved.     (Drinks^) 

TlM.  But  with  what  object  have  you  told  us  all  that 
I  don't  remember. 

JUAN.  To  prove  to  you  that  there  have  existed 
within  me  noble  aspirations. 

TIM.  Ah  !  yes,  sublime  desires. 

NEM.  Superhuman  longings. 

JUAN.  Quite  so  :  and  that  everything  which  was 
deprived  of  the  opportunity  of  making  itself  known  in 
me,  or  which  ran  to  waste  through  other  channels 
will  revive  in  my  Lazarus  in  the  forms  of  talent, 
inspiration,  genius,  wings  that  flutter,  creations  that 
spring  forth,  applause,  glory,  immorality.  Ah  !  you'll 
see — you'll  see. 

TIM.  Your  posthumous  blowing  off  of  steam. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  41 

JUAN.  My  last  and  most  pure  illusion — no,  the 
only  pure  illusion  of  my  existence.  And  you  ought 
to  be  glad  that  my  son  is  getting  on  so  well,  you 
scapegrace.  {GivftyTUL  a  playful  slap.) 

TIM.  I? 

NEM.  Ah,  ah  I  I  understand  you.  Another  glass 
to  the  health  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 

JUAN.  Eh  ?    What  do  you  say?     (To  DON  T.) 

TlM.  Ah,  yes ;  no,  it  is  impossible.  My  poor 
Garments  very  much  in  love :  but  I  don't  know  if 
LazaruS 

JUAN.  Lazarus  is  mad  about  her.  He  is  reserved 
enough,  but  he  is  mad. 

TIM.  Well,  look  ;  if  the  sdh  is  going  to  resemble  the 
papa  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  form  the  relationship, 
frankly. 

JUAN.  Much  obliged  to  you,  venerable  grandfather. 

NEM.  No,  Lazarus  is  very  steady. 

TlM.  The  fact  is  that  my  girl  is  very  weak,  very 
delicate,  a  sensitive  plant.  Her  poor  chest  troubles 
her  with  the  least  thing  ;  and  if  Lazarus  were  to  lead 
my  poor  Carmen  the  life  which  you  have  led  your 
wife,  I  should  renounce  the  relationship  and  the 
Honour  which  you  propose  to  me. 

JUAN.  Gently,  gently  ;  I  have  been  an  irreproach- 
able husband. 

TIM.  Oh  ! 

NEM.  Ah  ! 

JUAN.  Irreproachable.  My  wife  has  always  been 
first  in  my  affections. 

TIM.  But  you  have  had  a  second,  and  a  third 

NEM.  And  a  fourth  and  a  fifth. 

JUAN.  Those  are  lawful  requirements  of  the  system 
of  numeration. 

NEM.  Peace  between  the  future  fathers-in-law.  The 


24  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

one  is  as  good  as  the  other ;  the  one  is  just  as  gay  as 
the  other ;  and  one  is  quite  as  sedate  a  father  of  a 
family  as  the  other. 

JUAN.  And  of  course  you  must  be  better  than  we 
are  !  You  who  have  been  steeped  in  alcohol  from 
your  tenderest  years. 

NEM.  Between  the  bottle  and  the  woman,  I  cling 
to  the  bottle. 

TIM.  Well,  I  to  the  woman. 

JUAN.  Let  us  not  exaggerate  :  being  between  the 
bottle  and  the  woman  one  remains  just  the  same — 
between  the  bottle  and  the  woman. 

TIM.  Not  quite  :  we  now  remain  at  home  between 
our  own  woman  and  the  bottle  of  tisan — two  tisans. 

NEM.  Because  you  are  a  pair  of  dotards.  I  am 
every  night  at  the  theatre,  in  my  little  box  :  from  ten 
to  twelve  I  consecrate  myself  to  art.  Some  dancers 
have  come  from  Madrid.  Sweet  zephyrs  !  Four 
zephyrs  ! 

JUAN  (in  a  loud  voice  and  erecting  Jiintsf.lf  Ijhp.  an 
old  cock}.  Are  they  pretty  ? 

TIM.  Your  wife  will  hear  you. 

JUAN  (lowering  his  voice  in  exaggerated  style). 
Are  they  pretty  ? 

NEM.  Four  flowers,  four  stars,  four  goddesses,  the 
four  cardinal  points  of  beauty.  What  eyes  !  What 
waists  !  What  vigour  !  What  cushion-like  bodies. 

JUAN.  Cushion-like? 

NEM.  Nothing  artificial. 

JUAN.  Nothing  artificial?  And  you  are  going  to 
the  theatre  now  ? 

NEM.  I  go  there  to  finish  the  night  as  God  com- 
mands— in  admiring  the  marvels  of  creation.  (Rising.) 

TIM.  Then  I'll  accompany  you,  and  we  shall  both 
admire  them.  (Rising.) 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  43 

JUAN.  Well,  I'll  not  stay  at  home.  I'll  go  there 
with  you  two  and  we  shall  all  three  admire  them. 
(Rising  with  difficulty.} 

NEM.  At  this  time  of  night,  Juanito  ? 

JUAN.  You  two  are  going  at  this  time  of  night. 

TlM.  And  what  will  your  wife  say  ? 

JUAN.  For  twenty-five  years  my  wife  has  said 
nothing.  Besides,  I  give  orders  here.  No  one  ever 
calls  me  to  account.  Ho,  there,  I'll  be  back  in  a 
moment.  Ho,  there !  .  [Exit. 


NEM.  I  think  that  poor  Juan  is  getting  to  the  end 
of  his  tether.  Don't  you  see  how  he  walks  ?  What 
things  he  says  1  What  pitiful  senilities  ! 

TIM.  Yet  he  is  not  very  old. 

NEM.  What  should  make  him  old?  He  is  little 
more  than  sixty.  Every  man  who  respects  himself 
is  sixty  years  old.  ( Walking  about  somewhat  jauntily.) 

TIM.  Precisely  :  you  are  sixty,  I  am  sixty,  every 
well-conditioned  person  is  sixty. 

NEM.  But  he  has  lived  !  What  a  life  he  has  lived  ! 
This  is  what  I  say  :  people  may  be  guilty  of  follies  : 
you  have  been  guilty  of  them  :  I  have  been  guilty  of 
them 

TIM.  And  every  well-behaved  person  is  guilty  of 
them. 

NEM.  But  up  to  a  certain  point. 

TIM.  Up  to  a  certain  point. 

NEM.  But  poor  Juan  was  old  at  forty.  And  Lazarus 
is  not  what  his  father  says — no,  senor 

TIM.  Well,  talent— he  has  much  talent.  All  the 
newspapers  of  Madrid  assert  it ;  you  see  it  now. 
That  he  is  a  prodigy  that  he  will  be  a  glory  to  the 
nation. 

NEM.  I  don't  deny  it.  But  walk  with  care  before 
marrying  little  Carmen  to  him. 


44  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

TIM.  Why?  The  devil!  Why?  Is  he  like  his 
father  ? 

NEM.  No  !  Like  the  father — no.  Inclined  to  gaiety 
— yes.  What  would  you  have  the  son  of  Don  Juan  to 
be? 

TIM.  Everybody  is  inclined  to  gaiety.  I  am  so, 
you  are  so 

NEM.  It  is  not  that.  It  is  that  according  to  my 
information  (lowering  his  voice)  he  is  not  so  robust  as 
the  papa  supposes.  Lazarus  suffers  from  vertigo — 
nervouAAttacks — what  shall  I  say? — something  of  that 
sort.  At  long  intervals,  it's  true;  but  that  head  of 
his  is  not  strong.  That's  why  he  does  such  stupendous 
things,  and  that's  why  they  call  him  a  genius.  Don't 
trust  men  of  genius,  Timoteo.  A  genius  goes  along 
the  street,  and  every  one  says,  "  The  genius !  the 
genius  ! "  He  turns  round  the  corner,  and  the  little 
boys  in  the  next  street  run  after  him  shouting  :  "  The 
madman  !  the  madman ! "  Timoteo,  it  is  very- 
dangerous  to  have  much  cleverness. 

TlM.  God  deliver  us  from  it.  Oh  !  as  to  that  I 
have  always  been  very  careful. 

NEM.  So  have  I.  A  man  should  not  be  altogether 
a  fool ;  that's  not  well.  But  the  thing  is — don't  be  a 
genius. 

TlM.  Never.     Here's  Juan  coming  back. 

NEM.  Say  nothing  to  him  of  what  I  have  told  you. 
They  either  don't  know  of  the  sufferings  of  Lazarus, 
or  they  hide  them  ;  it's  natural. 

TIM.  Not  a  word  !  but  it's  well  to  know  it. 
Re-enter  DON  JUAN. 

JUAN  (dressed for  going  out).    Are  we  ready? 

TIM.  We  are. 

JUAN.  Then  let's  march.  Listen.  (To  TIM.)  Will 
you  come  back  for  Carmen,  or  must  we  take  her? 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  45 

TIM.  Carmen? 

JUAN.  Yes,  Carmen.  Have  you  already  forgotten 
that  she  is  in  there  with  Dolores  ? 

TIM.  It's  true. 

JUAN.  What  a  head  !  Ha,  ha  !  And  you  say  that 

I ?  He  forgets  his  own  daughter  !  It  would 

have  been  easy  for  me  to  forget  my  Lazarus.  What 
a  fellow  you  are  !  What  a  fellow  you  are  !  Away 
with  you  for  a  pair  of  wooden-heads  !  (Laughing!) 

TIM.  You  gay  young  dog,  lead  us  on  to  glory  and 
to  pleasure  ! 

JUAN.  I  shall  lead  you  on  to  the  cemetery  if  you 
annoy  me  any  more.  However,  what  do  you  decide  ? 
Will  you  come  back  to  fetch  Carmen  ? 

TIM.  I  shall  have  to  come  back  to  carry  you  home. 

JUAN.  You  carry  me?  You'd  never  be  able  to 
carry  any  one. 

NEM.  I  shall  carry  you  both.  Come,  give  me  your 
arm,  Juanito.  If  not  you  can't  go  down  the  staircase. 
(DON  JUAN  takes  his  arm.} 

JUAN.  Teresa— little  Teresa. 

TERESA  enters  from  the  back  centre. 

TER.  Senor? 

JUAN.  Tell  Dolores — tell  your  mistress — that  I  am 
going  out.  Let  Senorita  Carmen  wait  until  her 
father  returns  to  fetch  her.  March  on.  (To  TIM.) 
Take  hold  of  me,  for  you  are  not  very  strong.  Take 
hold  of  me. 

TlM.  March  on. 

NEM.  March  on. 

JUAN.  Military  step  !    One — two — 

TIM  (looking  at  TERESA).  This  girl's  prettier  every 
day. 

NEM.  (the  same).    And  fresher. 


46  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

JUAN  (to  NEM).    You  are  not  looking;  you  will  fall. 

TER.  Where  are  you  going,  senor  ? 

JUAN.  To  take  these  two  to  the  lunatic  asylum. 
[Exeunt  laughing  and  clutching  each  other's  arms . 

TER.  (looking  from  the  back}.  Well,  when  you  get 
in  there,  may  they  never  let  you  out.  Where  are 
those  mummies  going  ? 

Enter  DONA  DOLORES  and  CARMEN  from  the 

right. 

CAR.  Ah  !  They  are  not  here.     Papa  is  not  here. 
DOL.  Have  they  gone  out  ? 

TER.  Yes,  senora.  But  Don  Juan  left  word  that 
Senorita  Carmen's  papa  would  come  back  to  take  her 
home. 

CARMEN  coughs. 

DOL.  Coughing  again  !  You  ought  not  to  go  out 
at  night  ;  the  doctor  has  forbidden  you.  You  don't 
take  care  of  yourself.  You  are  a  little  simpleton.  Sick 
children  should  be  in  their  little  homes. 

CAR.  When  I  am  alone  I  am  very  sad.  I  had 
rather  cough  than  be  sad. 

DOL.  Not  so ;  I  shall  go  and  bear  you  company. 
And  I  shall  bring  Lazarus.  I  don't  wish  my  sick 
child,  my  darling  child  to  be  melancholy.  (Fondling 
her.} 

CARMEN  coughs. 
Again  ! 

CAR.  It's  not  worth  speaking  of. 

DOL.  The  fact  is  that  no  one  can  breathe  here. 
What  an  atmosphere  !  What  smoke  !  What  a  smell 
of  tobacco. 

TER.  The  three  ancient  gentlemen  were  all  the 
night  drinking  and  smoking  and  laughing.  Now  you 
see  how  they  have  left  everything. 

DOL.  Yes,   I   see.     (Looking  with  disgust  at  the 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  47 

little  table  which  is  full  of  ashes  and  ends  of  cigars 
and  covered  -with  bottles,  glasses,  and  -waiters'  trays.) 
Take  these  things  away  ;  clean  everything  up  ;  open 
the  balcony.  I  am  not  accustomed — yet  after  twenty- 
five  years  I  should  have  grown  accustomed.  (Aside.) 
The  poetry  of  existence  !  (Laughing  bitterly.) 

CAR.  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Dolores  ? 

DOL.  (changing  her  tone  and  feigning  merriment). 
I  feel  amused,  very  much  amused  at  the  frolics  of 
those  three  venerable  old  men. 

CAR.  Papa  is  not  yet  an  old  man. 

DOL.  He  is  not:  but  what  a  life  he  has  led.  (Re- 
collecting herself.)  So  laborious — his  business— his 
commerce— the  same  as  Juan. 

CAR.  Ah  yes.  Parents  are  all  alike,  killing  them- 
selves for  their  children.  Snd  papa  Is  very  good. 
He  loves  me — my  God  !  At  night  he  gets  up  I  don't 
know  how  many  times  and  listens  at  the  door  of  my 
room  to  know  if  I  am  coughing,  so  that  I,  who  hear 
him,  stifle  the  cough  with  my  handkerchief  or  with 
the  bed-clothes ;  but  sometimes  I  am  not  able — it  is 
that  I  am  choking.  (Coughs.) 

DOL.  (to  TERESA  who  has  been  meanwhile  taking 
away  bottles,  ash-trays,  waiters'1  trays,  and  who  has 
entered  and  gone  out  several  times).  Open  the 
balcony  !  Let  in  the  fresh,  pure  air.  No,  wait.  (To 
CARMEN.)  You  could  not  bear  the  sensation,  my 
poor  little  one.  Come.  (Taking  her  by  the  hand.) 

CAR.  Where  to  ? 

DOL.  While  the  room  is  being  ventilated  you  must 
remain  like  a  quiet  little  girl  behind  this  curtain. 
(Placing  her  behind  the  curtain  to  the  right.)  A  quiet 
little  girl,  eh  ?  Afterwards  you  shall  enter. 

CAR.  (laughing).  Are  you  leaving  me  in  punish- 
ment? 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

'OL.  In  punishment !  Your  father  is  very  in- 
dulgent, I  am  very  severe. 

CAR.  Good ;  but  your  punishment  does  not  last 
long. 

DOL.  Not  very  long.  (To  TERESA.)  Go  :  I  shall 
open  it.  {Exit  TERESA. 

DOLORES  opens  the  balcony. 

So  !  Air — the  air  of  night — space — freshness — that 
which  is  pure — that  which  is  great— that  which  does 
not  revolt  one — that  which  dilates  the  lungs — that 
which  expands  the  soul !  To  have  a  very  broad 
horizon  which  one  may  fill  with  hopes,  and  to  run 
towards  those  hopes  !  At  least  hope  !  Hope  !  Oh  ! 
I  cannot  complain.  I  have  my  Lazarus — then  I  have 
everything. 

CAR.  (putting  her  head  from  time  to  time  through 
the  curtain).  May  I  come  out  ? 

DOL.  No,  not  yet ;  wait — quiet,  my  little  one. 
( Walking  from  the  balcony  to  the  fireplace?)  To  have 
my  son  !  But  without  him  ever  having  had  a  father — 
above  all,  that  father !  Oh,  if  my  Lazarus  had 
sprung  spontaneously  from  my  love!  Even  as — as 
the  wave  of  the  sea  or  the  light  of  the  sun  springs 
forth.  After  all,  let  me  not  complain — even  if  he 
resembled — though  he  does  not  resemble — his  father, 
Lazarus'is  mine  and  mine  only.  How  good !  How 
noble.  What  intellect !  What  a  heart  !  Oh,  what 
it  is  to  have  such  a  son  ! 

CAR.  May  I  come  in  ? 

DOL.  Ah,  yes — wait  though — I  shall  first  shut  the 
balcony.  (Shuts  it.)  Come  in. 

CAR.  That's  very  different.  (Breathing  with 
pleasure.) 

DOL.  You  feel  well  ? 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  49 

CAR.  Very  well. 

DOL.  What  are  you  looking  at  ? 

CAR.  The  clock — to  see  what  time  it  is.  It  is 
getting  late  :  Lazarus  is  not  coming.  (Sadly.) 

DOL.  It  is  not  late,  my  child.  Come  and  sit  by 
me. 

CAR.  Yes,  it  is  late,  it  is  late. 

DOL.  Lazarus  will  come  soon.  He  knew  that  you 
were  coming  this  evening,  and  he  will  not  fail. 

CAR.  (sorrowfully).  But  he  would  do  wrong  to 
inconvenience  himself  for  me.  If  he  does  not  see  me 
now,  he'll  see  me  another  day. 

DOL.  You  silly  child,  are  you  complaining  ? 

CAR,  Not  at  all.  My  God !  He  has  his  engage- 
ments, and  he  must  not  sacrifice  himself  for  Carmen. 

DOL.  Carmen  deserves  it  all ;  and  Carmen  knows 
it ;  don't  be  a  little  hypocrite. 

CAR.  No,  senora,  I  speak  as  I  think,  and  that's 
what  gives  me  much  pain  and  makes  me  quick  at 
finding  fault.  You  fondle  me  and  love  me,  as  if  you 
were  my  own  mother,  now  that  I  no  longer  have  one. 
You  watch  over  our  love — the  love  of  Lazarus  and 
myself.  I  am  sure  you  tell  Lazarus  that  I  am  this 
and  that — in  short,  a  prodigy.  And  you  swear  to  me 
that  Lazarus  is  mad  for  the  love  of  his  Carmen.  But 
is  all  this  true  ?  Can  it  be  so  ?  Am  I  worthy  of 
Lazarus  ?  Can  such  a  man  as  he  feel  the  passion 
which  you  describe  to.  me  for  a  poor  creature  like 
myself? 

DOL.  Come,  now — I  shall  get  vexed.  Don't  say 
such  things.  Why,  have  you  never  looked  into  the 
glass? 

CAR.  Yes,  many  times— every  day. 

DOL.  And  what  does  the  glass  tell  you  ? 

CAR.  That  I  am  very  pale,  that  I  am  very  thin, 

3 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

that  I  have  very  sad  eyes,  and  that  I  rather  resemble 
a  mother  of  sorrows  than  a  girl  of  eighteen.  That's 
what  it  tells  me,  and  it  causes  me  a  rather  unpleasant 
feeling. 

DOL.  There  are  very  malevolent  mirrors,  and  yours 
is  one  of  them.  (In  a  comic  tone.)  They  take  the 
form  of  boats  to  give  us  long  faces  ;  they  get  blurred 
to  make  us  pale ;  they  become  stained  to  sow  freckles 
all  over  our  skins  ;  and  they  commit  every  kind  of 
wickedness.  Yours  is  a  criminal  looking-glass ;  I'll 
send  you  one  in  which  you  may  see  what  you  are,  and 
you  shall  see  an  angel  gazing  through  a  tiny  window 
of  crystal. 

CAR.  Yes.  (Laughs.)  But  even  if  I  were  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  could  I  be  worthy  of 
Lazarus  ?  A  man  like  him  1  A  future  such  as  his  ! 
A  talent  which  all  admire.  Nay,  a  superior  being.  I 
love  him  much  ;  but  it  makes  me  afraid  and  ashamed 
that  he  should  know  that  I  love  him  so  much.  I  feel 
as  if  he  were  going  to  say  to  me :  "  But  who  are  you, 
you  little  simpleton  ?  Have  you  imagined  that  I  am 
meant  for  an  unsubstantial,  ignorant,  sickly  little  thing 
like  you  ?  "  (Sadly  and  humbly.) 

DOL.  Well,  Carmen,  if  you  don't  wish  to  make  me 
angry,  you  will  not  talk  such  folly.  A  good  woman  is 
worth  more  than  all  the  learned  men  of  all  the  Acade- 
mies. And  if,  as  well  as  being  good,  she  is  pretty, 
then — then  there's  an  end,  there  is  no  man  who  is 
worthy  of  her.  Men,  with  the  exception  of  Lazarus, 
are  either  mean-spirited  wretches  or  heartless  devils. 
(In  a  rancorous  tone.) 

CAR.  Well,  papa  is  very  good,  and  is  very  fond  of  me. 

DOL.  Ah,  yes — a  very  good  person.  But,  if  he  had 
been  so  fond  of  you,  he  would  have  done  better  to  give 
you  stronger  lungs. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  51 

CAR.  But,  poor  man,  how  is  he  to  blame?  If  God 
did  not  wish 

DOL.  Ah  !  yes,  that's  true.  It  is  not  Don  Timoteo's 
fault.  It  was  God's  disposition  that  Carmen  should 
have  no  more  breathing  powers  than  those  of  a  little 
pigeon,  and  we  must  be  resigned. 

CAR.  Well,  that's  what  I  say.  But  Lazarus  is  not 
coming.  You'll  see  that  I  shall  have  to  go  away 
before  he  comes.  And,  if  he  comes  and  sets  to  work, 
I  shall  be  as  little  likely  to  see  him  to-night. 

DOL.  No  ;  he  has  not  written  for  some  days.  The 
excess  of  work  has  fatigued  him.  This  constant 
thought  is  very  wasting. 

CAR.  But  is  he  ill  ?    ( With  great  anxiety.} 

DOL.  No,  child  ;  fatigue,  and  nothing  more. 

CAR.  Yes ;  Jie  is  ill.  I  noticed  that  he  was  sad, 
preoccupied,  but  I  thought,  "  There,  it  is  that  he  does 
not  love  me,  and  he  does  not  know  how  to  tell  me  so." 

DOL.  What  things  you  imagine  !  Neither  the  one 
nor  the  other.  My  Lazarus  ill  !  Do  you  think  that  if 
he  had  been  so  I  would  not  have  set  in  motion  all  the 
first  medical  faculty  here,  and  in  Madrid,  and  in  foreign 
parts  ?  In  any  way,  however  (so)newhat  uneasily],  you 
are  right ;  he  is  very  late. 

CAR.  Did  he  go  to  the  theatre  ? 

DOL.  No,  to  dine  with  some  friends. 

CAR.  Did  Javier  go? 

DOL.  He  went  also.- 

CAR.  I  am  glad  ;  Javier  is  very  sensible. 

DOL.  So  is  Lazarus. 

CAR.  I  should  think  so  ;  but  a  good  friend  is  never 
superfluous,  and  Javier  has  admiration,  affection,  and 
respect  for  Lazarus. 

DOL.  (walking  about  impatiently).  Still,  it  is  getting 
late — very  late. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLlNOr 


52  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

CARMEN  turns  towards  the  balcony, 

What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

CAR.  Well,  to  watch  and  see  if  Lazarus  is  coming. 

DOL.  (drawing  her  away  from  the  balcony).  No, 
child  ;  you  don't  think  of  your  poor  chest,  nor  of  that 
most  obstinate  cough  of  yours.  Moreover,  the  night 
is  very  dark,  and  you  could  see  nothing.  Come  away, 
Carmen,  come  away  ;  I'll  watch. 

CAR.  If  I  can't  see,  neither  will  you  see 

DOL.  I  shall  try. 

CAR.  Wait ;  I  think  he  is  coming,  and  with  Javier. 

DOL.  (listening).  Yes — it's  true. 

CAR.  Are  they  not  coming  in  here  ? 

DOL.  No ;  they  have  gone  straight  to  the  room  of 
Lazarus.  But  don't  be  uneasy  ;  as  soon  as  he  knows 
that  you  are  here,  he  will  come  to  see  you. 

CAR.  Without  doubt  he  comes  back  thinking  of 
some  great  scene  for  his  drama,  or  of  some  chapter 
of  that  book  which  he  is  writing  and  which  they  say 
is  going  to  be  a  miracle  of  genius,  or  of  some  very 
intricate  problem.  Ah  !  my  God,  whatever  you  may 
say,  a  man  such  as  he  cannot  concern  himself  very 
much  about  an  insignificant  girl  like  myself. 

DOL.  Again ! 

CAR.  I  know  nothing,  I  am  worth  nothing,  I  am 
nothing.  I  ?  What  am  I  fit  for  ?  Tell  me.  To  stare 
at  him  like  a  blockhead  while  he  is  considering  these 
great  matters  ;  to  watch  at  the  balcony  and  see  if  he 
is  coming,  although  it  may  be  cold,  and  Carmen 
coughs  incessantly  ;  to  weep  if  he  takes  no  notice  of 
me,  or  if  they  tell  me  that  he  is  ill.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  little  Carmen  is  capable  of  doing  wonders.  To 
J look  at  him,  tcuwait  for  himT  to  weep  for  him. 

DOL.  And  what  more  can  a  woman  do  for  a  man  ? 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  53 

To  look  at  him  always,  to  wait  for  him  always,  to  weep 
for  him  always. 

CAR.  And  is  that  enough  ? 

DOL.  So  much  the  worse  for  Lazarus  if  that  should 
not  be  enough  for  him.  But  wait ;  he's  here  now ; 
did  I  not  tell  you  ?  as  soon  as  he  knew  you  were  here. 

CAR.  (joyfully}.  It's  true.     How  good  he  is. 

Enter  JAVIER. 

JAV.  A  pleasant  evening,  Dona  Dolores ;  pleasant 
evening,  Carmen. 

DOL.  A  very  good  evening. 

CAR.  And  a  very  pleasant — but — Lazarus 

DOL.  Is  not  Lazarus  coming  ? 

CAR.  Is  he  ill? 

DOL.  Ah  !  if  he  is  ill,  I  must  go  there 

JAV.  (stopping  her).  No,  for  God's  sake  !  What 
should  make  him  ill  ?  Listen  to  me.  We  and  several 
friends  have  been  dining  with  two  writers  from  Madrid 
— people  of  our  profession.  We  spoke  of  arts,  of 
sciences,  of  politics,  of  philosophy,  and  of  everything 
divine  and  human.  We  drank,  we  gave  toasts,  we 
made  speeches,  we  read  verses.  You  understand? 
And  these  things  excite  in  an  extraordinary  way  the 
nervous  system  of  Lazarus. 

DOL.  And  has  anything  gone  wrong  with  him? 
My  God  ! 

CAR.  Go,  Dolores — go  ! 

JAV.  For  the  sake  of  God  in  heaven,  let  me  con- 
clude. These  things,  I  say,  shake  his  nerves,  and  his 
imagination  becomes  on  fire  ;  it  soon  discovers  lumi- 
nous horizons ;  the  ideas  rush  upon  him  precipitately. 
Could  you  take  upon  yourselves  the  burden  of  them  ? 
No  ;  that  which  came  with  the  fever  of  inspiration  he 
wished  to  take  advantage  of,  and  for  that  reason— 


54  THE  Sox  OF  DON  JUAN. 

precisely  for  that  reason — he  locked  himself  up  in  his 
room  and  sent  me  away. 

CAR.  (sadly  to  DOLORES).  Did  I  not  say  so  ?  He 
would  come — and  to  work. 

DOL.  Does  he  not  know  that  Carmen  is  here  ? 

JAV.  They  told  us  that  on  our  entrance;  but  he 
/pays  attention  to  nothing,  to  nobody,  when  inspiration 
\and  glory  and  art  cry  aloud  to  him,  "Come,  we  are 
waiting  for  you." 

DOL.  However (Wishing  to  go.} 

CAR.  No,  for  God's  sakejj  (Stopping  her.}  He 
must^e~inowed^to  worTT  Tf  through  me  he  should 
lose  any  of  those  grand  ideas  which  now  hover  fondly 
about  him,  what  pain  and  what  remorse  for  me  ! 
Disturb  him  that  he  may  come  and  speak  to  me? 
No,  not  so  ;  I  am  not  so  selfish.  I  asked  for  nothing 
better.  By  no  means  can  I  consent.  (Embraces 
DOLORES  ;  coughs  and  almost  weeps.} 

DOL.  (with  anxiety}.  What's  the  matter  with  you? 

CAR.  (affecting  merriment}.  Nothing ;  it  is  only  that 
I  had  begun  to  laugh  and  cough  at  the  same  time.  I 
laughed  because  I  was  reminded  of  a  tale — a  very 
silly  tale,  which  made  me  laugh,  however,  and  which 
fits  the  case.  You  shall  judge.  There  was  a  very 
sprightly  little  female  donkey,  which  became  enam- 
oured of  a  most  beautiful  genius,  who  bore  on  his 
forehead  a  very  red  little  flame,  and  had  very  white 
wings;  and  the  bright  genius,  out  of  pure  compassion, 
fondled  the  ears  of  the  little  donkey;  and  she,  in 
accordance  with  her  nature,  began  to  leap  for  joy,  and 
it  overthrew  the  genius,  clipped  his  wings,  and  he 
could  fly  no  more.  The  blue  of  the  firmament  was 
cut  off  from  the  genius,  and  there  was  left  to  him 
nothing  more  than  a  very  green  meadow,  a  little 
female  donkey  who  was  very  good,  but  who  was,  after 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  55 

all,  a  donkey.  No,  mother,  I  don't  wish  to  be  the 
heroine  of  the  story.  Let  us  allow  the  genius  to  fly. 

DOL.  (to  JAVIER).  See  what  a  creature  she  is  ! 

JAV.  A  criminal  humility. 

DOL.  But,  indeed,  if  you  persist,  we  shall  let  him 
work. 

CAR.  Don't  you  think  we  might  let  him  have  this 
room  free  to  himself?  Here  he  has  his  books  of 
predilection,  and  he  has  more  room,  and  he  can  walk 
about ;  he  has  told  me  many  times  that  he  composes 
verses  while  walking  about. 

DOL.  A  good  idea  !  Let  us  go  to  my  sitting-room. 
(To  JAVIER.)  Tell  him  that  we  abandoned  the  field 
to  him,  and  that  he  may  come  without  fear. 

JAV.  (laughing).  Noble  sacrifice  ! 

DOL.  But  we'll  have  to  make  up  the  fire  ;  since  we 
opened  the  balcony  a  while  ago  the  room  has  become 
very  cold.  (Stirring  the  fire.} 

CAR.  It's  true.  But  let  him  not  receive  the  full 
heat.  We  must  place  the  screen  in  front — so. 
(Places  it.) 

DOL.  It  is  well— so. 

CAR.  (going  to  the  balcony  and  raising  the  curtain). 
Look — look  !  The  sky  has  become  a  little  cleared, 
and  the  moon  has  issued  from  the  clouds.  Very 
beautiful !  Very  beautiful !  We  must  draw  the 
curtain  back,  that  Lazarus  may  see  it  all  and  be  the 
more  inspired.  I  know  he  likes  to  work  while  gazing 
towards  the  heavens  from  time  to  time. 

DOL.  (running  to  help  CARMEN).  You  are  right ; 
you  think  of  everything. 

JAV.  Well,  if  after  so  many  precautions  and  such 
endearments  the  inspiration  is  not  responsive,  the 
inspiration  of  Lazarus  is  hard  to  please. 

CAR.  Is  everything  ready  now? 


56  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

DOL.  I  think  so.  Wait — your  portrait  is  hidden  in 
the  shade.  We  must  place  it  so  that  the  lamp  may 
throw  light  on  it,  so  that  he  may  be  inspired  by  it 
also. 

CAR.  I  inspire  him  ?  Yes — yes  !  Take  it  away. 
( Wishing  to  remove  it.) 

DOL.  I  shall  not  allow  it.  Let  it  remain  where  I 
have  put  it,  and  let  us  go. 

CAR.  If  you  insist — well,  then  let  him  see  it.  But 
there  is  not  much  light.  (Turning  up  the  light  of  the 
lamp.) 

DOL.  (to  JAVIER).  Call  him — let  him  come. 

CAR.  Yes,  let  him  come  and  write  something  very 
beautiful.  Then  I  shall  enter  for  a  moment,  to  bid 
him  good-night. 

DOL.  Until  then — come,  Carmen. 

CAR.  (to  JAVIER).  And  you,  too,  leave  him  alone ; 
you  must  not  have  any  more  privileges  than  we. 

DOL.  Are  you  coming  to  keep  us  company  ? 

JAV.  Later  on. 

CAR.  Is  everything  in  order?    (Looking round.) 

DOL.     I  think  so.    Adieu. 

CAR.  Adieu  ! 

— • — — < 

[Exeunt  to  left  CARMEN  and  DOLORES,  halj 
embracing  each  other. 

JAV.  The  field  is  clear.    Poor  women  !    How  they 
love  him  !   It  is  adoration.    (Going  to  right.)   Lazarus  ! 
Good-for-nothing  !    Now  you  can  come — come,  if  you 
can  ! 
Enter  LAZARUS,  pale,  somewhat  in  disorder,  and  with 

unsteady  step  ;  in  short,  as  the  actor  may  think  Jit. 

LAZ.  (looking  about).  Are  they  not  here  ? 

JAV.  No  ;  fortunately  it  occurred  to  them  that  you 
would  work  better  alone. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

LAZ.  Well,  whatever  you  say,  I  think  that  I 
presentable.  Eh  ?  My  head  doesn't  feel  bad — a 
delicious  vagueness.  I  seem  to  be  encircled  by  a 
mist— a  very  soft  mist ;  and  through  its  texture  there 
shine  some  little  stars.  In  short,  peaceful  sensations, 
very  peaceful. 

JAV.  That's  to  say,  you  are  better  ? 

LAZ.  Don't  I  tell  you  so?  My  legs  indeed  give 
way,  but  without  pain.  I  walk  in  the  midst  of  softness. 
(Laughing!)  My  head  among  the  clouds  and  the 
ground  of  cotton-wool.  Divine !  So  ought  the 
universe  to  be — that  is,  quilted.  Lord  !  what  a  world 
has  been  made  of  it — so  rough,  so  hard,  so  inconve- 
nient. At  every  step  you  stumble  and  injure  yourself 
— rocks,  rugged  stones,  sharp  points,  peaks,  angles, 
and  little  corners  and  big  corners.  The  world  should 
be  round — quite  so,  and  round  it  is ;  roundness  is 
perfection  ;  but  it  should  be  an  immeasurable  sphere 
of  eider-down,  so  that,  if  a  citizen  falls,  he  may  always 
fall  amid  softness — thus  !  (Letting  himself  fall  in  the 
arm-chair,  or  on  one  of  the  cushioned  stools  at  the  side 
of  the  table.} 

JAV.  All  very  well— but  you  really  are  not  strong. 

LAZ.  I  am  not  strong  ?  Stronger  than  you — stronger 
than  you.  Stronger. 

JAV.  I  told  you  that  you  should  not  drink.  It  does 
you  harm  ;  your  health  is  broken  down. 

LAZ.  I'm  broken  down?  I? — How?  I  have  not 
been  a  saint,  but  neither  have  I  been  a  madman.  I 
am  young  :  I  have  always  thought  that  I  was  strong  : 
and,  through  drinking  two  or  three  glasses,  and 
smoking  a  puro  and  laughing  a  little — here  am  I 
transformed  into  a  stupid  being  !  Because,  now,  it  is 
not  that  I  am  broken  down,  as  you  say,  nor  that  I  am 
drunk,  as  you  suppose — it  is  that  I  feel  simply  stupjd. 


58  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

No  ;  and  see,  now,  it  is  not  so  disagreeable  to  be 
stupid  :  one  feels — a  sort  of  merriment,  as  it  were. 
That's  why  so  many  people  are  merry.  (Laughing!) 
That's  why !  That's  why !  Now  I  am  falling  into 
this  same  stupidity — that's  why,  just  so. 

JAV.  Attend  to  me,  and  understand  what  I  say  to 
you,  if  you  are  in  a  condition  to  understand  me. 

LAZ.  If  I  can  understand  you  ?  I  understand 
everything  now.  The  world  is  transparent  to  me  : 
your  head  is  made  of  crystal  (laughing),  and  written 
in  very  black  and  tortuous  letters  I  read  your 
thought — you  suppose  I  am  very  bad.  Poor  Javier  ! 
(Laughing!) 

JAV.  Don't  talk  such  rubbish  :  I  neither  think  such 
a  thing,  nor  are  you  really  ill.  Fatigue,  weariness — 
nothing  more.  You  have  lived  very  fast  in  Madrid 
during  the  last  few  years  :  you  have  thought  much, 
you  have  worked  much,  you  have  had  a  good  deal  of 
pleasure,  and  you  need  a  few  months'  rest — here — in 
your  father's  house,  with  your  mother,  with  Carmen. 

LAZ.  Carmen — yes — look  at  her.  (Pointing  to  the 
photograph!)  There  she  is.  How  sad,  how  poetical, 
how  adorable  a  countenance.  I  wish  to  live  for  her. 
With  all  the  glory  that  I  achieve  I  shall  make  a  circle 
of  light  for  that  dear,  pretty  little  head.  (Sends  a  kiss 
to  the  portrait?)  We  shall  live  together,  you  and  I, 
my  sweet  little  Carmen,  and  we  shall  be  very  happy. 
(As  if  speaking  with  her.)  For  I  wish  to  live. 
(Growing  excited  and  turning  to  JAVIER.)  If  I  had 
never  lived  it  would  never  have  suggested  itself  to  me 
that  I  should  continue  to  live  :  but  I  have  commenced, 
and  I  don't  wish  to  break  off  so  soon.  No — no — it 
shall  not  be — as  God  lives. 

JAV.  Come,  Lazarus. 

LAZ.  I   am  strong.      Why  should   I  not  be  so? 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  59 


What  right  has  nature  to  make  of  me  a  feeble  creature 
whea  I  wish  to  be  strong?  My  thought  burns,  my 
heart  leaps,  my  veins  abound  with  the  exuberance  of 
life,  my  desires  are  aflame  !  To  put  steam  of  a  thou- 
sand atmospheres  into  an  old  and  rusty  boiler  !  Oh  ! 
infamous  mockery  ! 

JAV.  Eh !  There  you  are,  started  off !  What 
steam,  or  what  boiler  ?  The  little  glass  of  cham- 
pagne. 

LAZ.  A  man  like  myself  cannot  be  tormented  with 
impunity.  Here  you  have  the  world :  it  is  yours : 
run  merrily  through  its  valleys,  mount  its  summits  in 
triumph  !  But  you  shall  not  run,  you  shall  not  / 
mount,  unless  rheumatism  is  planted  in  your  bones. 
Here  you  have  the  azure  firmament  :  it  is  yours  :  fly 
among  its  altitudes,  gaze  upon  its  horizons.  But  you 
shall  not  fly  except  the  plumage  of  your  wings  be 
wrenched  away  and  you  become  a  worm-eaten  car- 
cass. What  derision  !  What  satire  !  What  cruelty! 
Accursed  wine !  What  extravagant  things  I  see, 
Javier  !  Colossal  figures  in  masks  float  across  the 
firmament,  and,  hung  from  very  long  strings,  which 
are  suspended  from  very  long  canes,  they  bear  suns 
and  splendours  and  stars,  and  they  sweep  onward 
crying,  "  Hurrah  !  hurrah  I"1  and  I  wish  to  reach  all 
that,  and  I  cannot  touch  even  one  little  star  with  my 
lips.  Grotesque,  very  grotesque  !  Cruel  !  very  cruel  ! 
Sorrowful,  very  sorrowful !  My  God  !  My  God ! 
{He  hides  his  face  in  his  hands.) 

JAV.  Come,  Lazarus,  come.  You  see  you  cannot 
commit  even  the  slightest  excess. 

LAZ.  I  ha've  uttered  many  follies,  have  I  not  ?    No 

1  The  original  "al  higui  !  al  higui ! "  is  a  term  of  rejoicing 
peculiar  to  children  in  their  games.  It  is  only  used  in  the  South 
of  Spain. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

matter  :  no  one  hears  me  but  you,  and  it's  a  relief  to 
me.  See,  now  I  am  more  composed.  I  feel  tred, 
and  I  even  think  I  am  sleepy. 

JAV.  That  would  be  best  for  you  :  sleep,  sleep, 
and  let  neither  your  mother  nor  Carmen  ste  you 
thus. 

LAZ.  As  for  my  mother,  it  would  not  matter. 
(Smiling.')  But,  Carmen— let  not  Carmen  see  me 
looking  ridiculous.  The  poor  girl  who  imagines  that 
I  am  a  superior  being !  Poor  child,  what  a  joke  ! 
(Stretches  himself  on  the  sofa.} 

JAV.  Good  ;  now  don't  speak.  I  shall  not  speak 
either  ;  and  try  to  sleep.  With  half  an  hour  of  sleep 
everything  will  pass  off. 

LAZ. /Sleep,  too,  is  ridiculous  at  times  If  I  am 
very  ridiculous  don't  let  Carmen  see  me. 

JAV.  No  ;  if  you  don't  look  as  beautiful  as  Endy- 
mion  she  shall  not  enter.  / 

Pause.    JAVIER  walks  about.    LAZARUS  begins  to 
sleep. 

LAZ.  Javier,  Javier. 

JAV.  What? 

LAZ.  Now  I  am — almost  asleep.    How  do  I  look  ? 

JAV.  Very  poetical. 

LAZ.  Good — thank — you.    Very  poetical. 

A  pause. 

"*  JAV.  No,   Lazarus  is  not  well.     I   shall  speak  to 
his  father — no,  not  to   Don  Juan.    To  his  mother, 
\     who  is  the  only  person  of  sense  in  this  house. 

LAZ.  Javier. 

JAV.  What  do  you  want  ? 

LAZ.  Put  Carmen's  picture  more  to  the  front. 

JAV.  So? 

LAZ.  So.  For  her — the  light ;  for  Lazarus — the 
gloom. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  61 

JAV.  (walking  about  slowly).  Yes,  I  shall  speak  to 
his  mother.  And — happy  coincidence  !  I  had  not 
remembered  that  the  celebrated  Doctor  Bermudez,  a 
specialist  in  all  that  relates  to  the  nervous  system,  has 
arrived  within  the  last  few  days.  Then  to  him  !  let 
them  consult  with  him. 

LAZ.  (now  almost  asleep).  Javier. 

JAV.  But  are  you  not  going  to  sleepj* 

LAZ.  Yes — but  more  in  the  light — more  in  the  light. 
( With  a  somewhat  sorrowful  accent.) 

JAV.  Come  (placing  the  portrait  close  to  the  light) — 
and  silence. 

LAZ.  Yes  .  .  .  Carmen  !  .  .  . 

JAV.  (contemplating  him  for  a  while.)  Thank  God 
— asleep. 


DOLORES,  CARMEN,  DON  JUAN, and  TmoiEj  appear 
at  the  threshold  of  the  door  at  the  back  centre. 

CAR.  May  we  come  in  ? 

JAV.  Silence  ! 

CAR.  It  was  to  say  good-night. 

JAV.  He  is  asleep.  He  worked  a  short  time,  but  he 
was  fatigued. 

CAR.  Then  let  us  not  disturb  him.  Adieu,  Javier. 
The  light  is  in  his  eyes — you  should  lower  the  shade. 
Adieu.  (Kissing  DOLORES.)  Adieu,  Don  Juan.} 

TIM.  (to  DOL.)  Till  to-morrow.  (To  DON  J.)  Till 
to-morrow. 

JUAN.  Nor  shall  we  let  to-morrow  go  by.  I  shall 
pay  you  a  solemn  visit — and  prepare  yourself,  little 
rogue  (to  CARMEN). 

CAR.  I? 

JUAN.  Silence,  he  is  asleep. 

TIM.  Good,  good.    Ah  !  it  is  late.    Good-bye. 


62  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

DOL.  Good-bye,  my  daughter. 

All  have  spoken  in  low  voices. 

[Exeunt  CARMEN  and  TIMOTEO. 

DOL.  (approaching  JAVIER.)  Did  he  work  long  ? 

JAV.  A  short  time,  but  with  great  ardour.  A  great 
effort  of  intellect. 

JUAN  (approaching  also  and  contemplating  LAZA- 
RUS). Lord,  to  think  of  what  this  boy  is  going  to  be! 
The  face  foretells  it.  The  aureola  of  talent  ! 

DOL.  He  is  very  pale — very  pale. 

JUAN.  What  would  you  have  him  to  be  ?  Fat  as  a 
German,  and  red  as  a  beetroot  ?  Then  he  would  not 
be  a  genius. 

DOL.  However — such  pallor  ! 

JUAN  and  DOLORES  are  bent  over  LAZARUS  contem- 
plating him  with  affectionate  care. 

JUAN.  I  am  decidedly  the  father  of  a  genius,  and 
then  (to  JAVIER)  they  come  to  me  with 

JAV.  With  what? 

JUAN.  With  nothing.  (Aside.}  With  moral  ser- 
mons, and  with  the  law  of  heredity,  and  with  all  that 
stale  trash.  The  father  a  hare-brained  fellow,  and 
the  son  a  wise  man. 

DOL.  But  has  nothing  been  amiss  with  him?  Was 
it  nothing  more  than  fatigue  ? 

JAV.  Nothing  more.  You  may  withdraw :  I  shall 
stay  until  he  awakes. 

JUAN.  I  shall  not  withdraw.  I  was  wanting 
nothing  better.  I  shall  sit  down  here  (sitting  at  the 
other  side  of  the  table),  and  from  here  I  shall  watch 
the  sleep  of  Lazarus.  You  remain  on  foot,  in  honour 
of  the  genius.  Keep  away,  keep  away  from  before 
him,  that  you  may  not  prevent  me  from  seeing  my 
son. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  63 

DOL.  Yet  the  sleep  is  not  very  restful. 

JUAN.  How  should  it  be  restful,  woman,  since  he 
must  be  busied  with  great  matters  in  his  dreams  ? 

DOL.  My  Lazarus. 

JAV.  (aside.}  Poor  Lazarus. 

JUAN  (laughing  quietly).  Don  Juan  Tenorio — 
watching  the  sleep — of  the  son  of  Don  Juan  ! — silence 
— silence — let's  see  if  we  shall  hear  anything  from  the 
son  of  Don  Juan.  ( With  pride  and  tenderness.) 


«"  SE  v£T 


END  OF  ACT  I 


ACT  II. 

Same  appointments  as  in  first  Act.  It  is  day.  On 
the  little  table  are  flowers.  DON  JUAN  discovered 
seated  close  to  the  tea-table.  LAZARUS  also  dis- 
covered. He  sometime  walks  about;  again  he 
sits  down  :  he  tries  to  write,  he  throws  away  the< 
pen.  He  opens  a  book  and  reads  for  a  few* 
moments,  closes  it  irritably  and  resumes  his 
walking  about.  It  is  evident  that  he  is  uneasy 
and  nervous.  All  this  in  the  course  of  the  scene 
with  his  father.  DON  JUAN  follows  him  with 
his  eyes  and  smokes  a  puro. 

JUAN.  What  are  you  thinking  of?  Ah  !  pardon !  I 
must  not  disturb  you. 

LAZ.  You  don't  disturb  me,  father.  I  was  thinking 
of  nothing  important.  My  imagination  was  wander- 
ing, and  I  was  wandering  after  it. 

JUAN.  If  you  wish  to  work — to  write — to  read — and 
I  trouble  you  I  shall  go.  Ha,  I  shall  go.  (Rising.) 
Do  you  want  me  to  go  ?  for  here  I  am  going. 

LAZ.  No,  father,  good  gracious  !     You  disturb  me  ! 

JUAN  (siting  down  again).  The  fact  is,  as  you  see, 
that  which  I  do  can  be  done  anywhere.  It  is  in 
substance  nothing.  Well,  for  the  performance  of 
nothing  any  point  of  space  is  good.  (Laughing.)  Of 
space  !  There  are  your  philosophical  offshoots  taking 
64 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  65 

root  in  me.  The  father  in  space,  the  son  in  the  fifth 
heaven.  That's  why  I  say  if  I  disturb 

LAZ.  No,  father,  don't  go  away ;  and  let  us  talk  of 
what  you  please. 

JUAN.  Much  good  you'd  get  by  talking  with  me. 
To  your  great  books,  to  your  papers,  to  those  things 
which  astound  by  their  greatness  and  are  admired 
for  their  beauty  I  Continue — continue  !  I  shall  see 
you  at  work.  I,  too,  shall  busy  myself  with  some- 
thing. (Pulls  the  bell.) 

LAZ.  As  you  like.       [Sits  down  and  writes  fitfully. 
Enter  TERESA. 

JUAN.  Little  Teresa — (looking  at  his  son  and  cor- 
recting himself. )  Teresa,  bring  me  a  glass  of  sherry 
and  a  few  biscuits  ;  I  also  have  to  busy  myself  with 
something.  And  bring  me  the  French  newspapers  ; 
no,  nothing  but  Figaro  and  Gil  Bias.  (To  his  son.) 
And  so  we  shall  both  be  at  work.  (To  TERESA.) 
Listen — by  the  way,  bring  me  that  novel  which  is 
in  my  room.  You  can  read,  can't  you  ? 

TER.  Yes,  senor. 

JUAN.  Well,  then,  a  book  which  says  Nana — you 
understand  ? 

TER.  Yes,  senor.    Nd-nd. — For  no  is  na". 

JUAN.  It  is  something,  little  girl, — (aside)  something 
that  you  will  be  in  time.  [Exit  TERESA. 

LAZ.  (Rises  and  walks  about — aside).  I  have  no 
ideas.  To-day  I  have  no  ideas.  Yes,  I  have  many ; 
but  they  come  like  a  flight  of  birds  ;  they  flutter  about 
— and  they  go. 

JUAN.  See  now — I  cannot  bear  immoral  novels. 

LAZ.  You  said  .  .  .  ? 

JUAN.  Nothing  !  I  thought  that  you  said  something. 
I  said  that  I  cannot  endure  immoral  novels.  (Assum- 


66  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

ing  airs  of  austerity?)  I  read  them,  I  read  "  Nana,"  out 
of  curiosity,  as  a  study,  but  I  can't  bear  them.  Lite- 
rature is  in  a  lost  condition,  my  son,  in  a  lost  condition. 
Nemesio  lent  me  that  book — and  I  am  anxious  to  have 
done  with  it. 

LAZ.  Zola  is  a  great  writer.  (Aside.)  This  is  the 
very  thing  that  I  was  looking  for.  (He  sits  and  writes.) 

Enter  TERESA  with  a  tray,  a  bottle  of  sherry,  a 
glass  and  the  biscuits,  "  Nana  "  and  the  two 
newspapers. 

TER.  Here  is  everything.  The  sherry  :  the  news- 
papers just  come,  the  tender  little  biscuits,  and  the 
tender  little  Nana  (baby)  as  well.  (She  stands  looking 
at  the  two  gentlemen.) 

JUAN.  Bring  the  sherry  closer,  Teresa. — Work,  boy, 
work.  Take  no  notice  of  me.  Work,  for  it  is  thus 
that  men  attain  success.  I  also  in  my  youth  have 
worked  much.  That's  the  reason  I  look  so  old. 
(Staring  at  TERESA  who  laughs.)  (Aside.)  What's 
that  stupid  girl  laughing  at?— (To  TERESA.)  Now, 
you  may  go.  I  don't  want  you.  The  Gil  Bias! 
(Unfolds  it  and  begins  to  read  it.)  Let  us  have  a  look 
at  these  wretched  little  newspapers.  .  .  .  (affecting 
contempt.)  I  told  you  to  go. — (To  TERESA.)— Let's 
see,  let's  see.  (Reads.) 

TER.  Yes,  senor.  (She  remains  for  a  while  looking 
at  the  two,  and  turns  towards  the  door  in  the  back 
centre.) 

LAZ.  (rising).  Teresa — 

TER.  Senorito— 

LAZ.  Come  here  and  speak  lower  :  let  us  not  dis- 
turb your  master,  who  is  reading.  Did  you  take  the 
letter  which  I  gave  you  this  morning? 

TER.  Yes,  senorito,  I  took  it  myself.  Whatever 
you  require  me  to  do,  senorito  ! 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  67 

LAZ.  Good.     It  was  for  Senor  Bermudez,  eh? 

TER.  Yes,  senorito.  That  doctor  who  has  such  a 
great  name,  who  has  come  from  Madrid  for  a  few 
days  to  cure  Don  Luciano  Barranco — the  same  who, 
they  say,  is  either  mad  or  not  mad.  (Laughing!) 

LAZ.  (starting,  then  restraining  himself].  Ah  ! 
Yes.  Quite  so ;  the  same.  And  did  you  see  him  ? 
Did  you  hand  him  the  letter?  Did  he  give  you  the 
answer  ?  Where  is  it  ?  Come,  quick  ! 

TER.  Eh,  senorito — 

LAZ.  Come — 

TER.  I  gave  the  letter  :  he  was  not  in  : — they 
said — 

LAZ.  Lower — (Looking  at  his  father  who  laughs 
while  reading  the  newspaper.} 

TER.  They  said  that  as  soon  as  he  came  back  they 
would  give  him  the  letter.  Have  no  fear,  senorito. 
Whatever  little  I  take  charge  of !  Well,  if  I  do  nothing 
worse  than — 

LAZ.  It's  well — thanks.  (Dismissing  her,  then  re- 
calling her.}  Oh  !  if  they  bring  the  answer — here  on 
the  instant — eh  ? 

TER.  On  the  instant :  I  should  think  so  !  have  no 
fear,  senorito. 

LAZ.  Enough  !  let  us  not  trouble  my  father. 

[Exit  TERESA. 

JUAN.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  Facetious,  very  facetious  ! 
sprightly,  very  sprightly  !  Pungent  as  a  capsicum 
from  the  Rioja  I  It  is  the  only  newspaper  that  one 
can  read  ! 

LAZ.  Some  interesting  article  ?  What  is  it  ?  What 
does  it  say  ?  Let  me  see  !  (Approaching  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  hand.) 

JUAN  (keeping  back  the  newspaper}.  A  very  shame- 
less little  article — and  quite  without  point.  It  must 


68  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

be  put  away.  (Puts  it  in  a  pocket  of  his  dressing- 
gown,  but  in  such  a  way  that  it  may  be  seen.}  May 
the  devil  not  so  contrive  things  that  Carmen  may 
come  and  find  the  newspaper  and  read  it  in  all  inno- 
cence. 

LAZ.  (withdrawing).     It  is  true  :    you    do    well ! 
Walks  about  nervously.) 

JUAN  (aside).  And  I  had  not  finished  reading  it : 
I  shall  read  it  afterwards.  (Takes  up  "Nana.")  This 
also  is  good.  The  spring  with  all  its  verdure.  (Aloud.) 
Work,  boy,  work ! 

I  LAZ.  (aside).  I  shall  speak  to  the  Doctor  this  very 
day,  that  he  may  set  my  mind  at  ease.  I  know  that 
nothing  is  the  matter  with  me ;  but  I  want  a  specialist 
L  to  assure  me  on  the  point.  And  then,  with  mind 
at  peace — to  my  drama,  to  my  critico-historical  work, 
to  my  aesthetic  theories  which  are  new,  completely 
new — and  to  Carmen.  And  with  the  muse  at  one 
side,  recounting  marvels  in  my  ear,  and  with  Carmen 
on  the  other  side,  pressed  against  my  heart — to  enjoy 
life,  to  inhale  the  odour  of  triumphs,  to  live  for  love, 
to  satiate  my  longings  amidst  eternal  mysteries. 

JUAN.  Stupendous  !  Monumental  !  Sufficient  to 
make  one  die  of  laughing.  Lord,  why  does  a  man 
read  ?  To  be  amused  ;  then  books  that  are  amusing 
for  me !  (Laughing.) 

LAZ.  Is  that  a  nice  book  ? 

JUAN  (changing  his  tone).  Pshaw — yes — pretty 
well.  But  these  frivolous  things  are  tiresome  after 
all.  (Sees  LAZARUS  coming  towards  him,  and  puts 
"  Nana  "  into  the  other  pocket  of  the  dressing-gown?) 
Have  you  anything  solid  to  read — really  substan- 
tial ? 

LAZ.  I  have  many  large  books.  "What  class  do  you 
want? 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  69 

JUAN.  Something  serious  ;  something  that  instructs 
you,  that  makes  you  think. 

LAZ.  (going  to  the  bookcase).  Would  you  like 
something  of  Kant  ? 

JUAN.  Of  Kant  ?    Do  you  say  of  Kant  ?    Quite  so ! 
he  was  my  favourite  author.    When  I  was  young  I   ~* 
went    to  sleep  every  night  reading  Kant.    (Aside.)    C    ' 
What  will  that  be?    It  sounds  like  a  dog. 

LAZ.  (searching  out  a  passage).  If  you  like,  I  shall 
tell  you. 

JUAN.  No,  my  lad  ;  any  part  whatever  !  (Taking 
the  book.)  Yes,  this  may  be  read  at  any  part.  You 
shall  see.  And  don't  concern  yourself  with  me ;  write, 
my  son,  write. 

LAZARUS  sits  and  attempts  to  write.    DON  JUAN 
reads. 

"  Under  the  aspect  of  relationship,  the  third  con- 
sequence of  taste,  the  beautiful  appears  to  us  as  the 
final  form  of  an  object,  without  representation  of 
end."  The  devil  !  (holding  the  book  far  off",  as  long- 
sighted people  do  and  contemplating  it  with  terror.) 
The  devil  !  "  or  as  a  finality  without  end."  Whoever 
can  understand  this  ?  "  Because  what  is  called  final 
form  is  the  causality  of  any  conception  whatever  with 
relation  to  the  object."  Let  me  see — let  me  see. 
(Holding  the  book  still  further  off.)  "  Final  form  the 
causality."  I  believe  I  am  perspiring.  (Wipes  his  "  ^H^ 
forehead.)  "  The  consciousness  of  this  finality  without 
end  is  the  play  of  the  cognitive  forces."  How  does 
he  say  that?  "The  play  of  the  forces — the  play." 
Well,  I  ought  to  understand  this  about  play.  "  The 
consciousness  of  this  internal  causality  is  that  which 
constitutes  the  aesthetic  pleasure."  If  I  go  on  it  will 
give  me  a  congestion.  Jesus,  Mary  and  Joseph  ! 


70  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

And  to  think  that  Lazarus  understands  about  the 
finality  without  end,  the  causality  and  the  play  of  the 
cognitive  forces!  God  help  me!  What  a  boy!  — 
{continues  reading.}  "  The  principle  of  the  formal 
convenience  of  nature  is  the  transcendental  principle 
of  the  force  of  Judgment."  (Giving  a  blow  on  the 
table}  I  shall  be  lost  if  I  continue  reading.  But  if 
that  boy  reads  these  things  he  will  go  mad. 

LAZ.  Does  it  interest  you  ? 

JUAN.  Very  much  !  What  depth  !  [(Aside./  For 
five  minutes  I  have  been  falling,  and  I  Iiave  not 
reached  the  bottom.  (Aloud.}  I  should  think  it  does 
interest  me  !  But,  frankly,  I  prefer — 

LAZ.  Hegel?     /' 

JUAN.  Exactly;  (Aside)*—  "Nana."'  But  you,  my  son, 
neither  read,  nor  write  :  you  are  fretful.  What's  the 
matter  with  you  ?  Did  the  hunting  tire  you  ?  Yet 
the  exercise  of  the  chase  is  very  healthy  for  one  who 
like  you  wears  himself  away  over  his  books.  Are  you 
ill? 

LAZ.  No,  sefior,  I  am  not  ill.  And  I  spent  these 
three  days  in  the  country  very  pleasantly.  But  this 
morning  broke  dull  and  rainy,  and  I  said — "  Home  !  " 

JUAN.  And  you  arrived  when  I  was  getting  up. 
I  told  you  the  great  news ;  immediately  you  showed 
great  delight ;  but  then  you  fell  into  sublime  pre- 
occupations. Poor  Carmen  !  (approaching  him  with 
an  air  of  secrecy}  You  don't  love  her  as  she  loves 
you. 

LAZ.  With  all  my  soul !  More  than  you  can 
imagine !  I  am  as  I  am  :  reserved,  untamed,  un- 
polished— but  I  know  how  to  love  ! 

JUAN.  Better  and  better  !  The  poor  little  thing- 
come,  now — the  poor  little  thing. 

LAZ.  And  why  did  not  Don   Timoteo  answer  on 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  71 

the  spot  that  he  accepted  ?    When  you  asked  him  for 
his  daughter  for  me,  why  did  he  hesitate  ? 

JUAN.  What  do  you  mean  by  hesitation  ?  I  do  him 
the  honour  of  requesting  the  hand  of  Carmen  for  my 
Lazarus — and  he  would  hesitate  !  I  should  strangle 
the  scarecrow.  Marry  a  man  like  you  !  What  more 
could  any  daughter  or  any  father  desire  ? 

LAZ.  Then  why  did  he  put  off  the  answer  till 
to-day  ? 

JUAN.  The  prescriptions  of  etiquette  :  social  con- 
ventionalities :  he  was  always  a  great  stickler  for 
etiquette.  Because  he  must  consult  with  Carmen. 
Imagine  him  consulting  with  Carmen  !  When  the 
poor  little  thing  is  like  a  soul  in  purgatory,  and  you 
are  her  heaven. — Ha  !  ha  ! 

LAZ.  You  are  right. 

JUAN.  No :  you  shall  have  your  sweet  little  wife, 
your  home ;  you  shall  work  hard,  you  shall  gain  great 
glory,  you  shall  keep  a  sound  judgment — and  let  the 
whole  world  say  :  Don  Lazarus  Mejia,  son  of  Don 
Juan  Mejia  !  Oh  ! 

LAZ.  Yes,  senor :  I  shall  do  what  I  can — and  I 
shall  love  my  Carmen  dearly. 

JUAN.  That's  right— that's  right.  But  something's 
the  matter  with  you.  You  seem  as  it  were  absent- 
minded. 

LAZ.  I  am  thinking — of  my  drama. 

JUAN.  Then  I  shall  go  !  decidedly  I  shall  go  ! 
With  my  insipid  chatter  I  prevent  you  from  thinking. 
Oh  1  thought  !  the— the—  (looking  at  the  book)  "  the 
cognitive  forces" — the — the—  (looking  again)  "the 
finality  "—that's  it—"  the  finality."— Ah  !— Good-bye. 

LAZ.  But  don't  go  away  on  my  account. 

JUAN.  We  must  show  respect  to  the  wise.  (Laugh- 
ing.) I  am  going  to  read  all  alone  the  great  book 


72  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

which  you  have  lent  me.  (Taking  a  flower  and 
putting  it  in  the  buttonhole  of  his  dressing-gown) 
Consider  now,  whether  I  shall  hesitate  between 
Kant  and  "  Nana."  (Pulls  the  bell.} 

LAZ.  As  you  please. 

JUAN.  Good-bye,  my  son.  To  your  drama — to 
your  drama— and  put  nothing  immoral  in  it. 


Enter  TERESA. 


TER.  Senor. — 

JUAN.  Listen,  Teresa :  take  all  that  to  my  room. 
Wait — (Pours  himself  out  a  glass.  Touching  one  pocket.} 
Here  is  Gil  Bias,  (touching)  here  is  "Nana":  Kant 
hauled  along  by  the  neck — and  to  my  room.  Work, 
my  boy,  work !  Do  something  great.  Leave  some- 
thing to  the  world.  I  shall  leave  you — I  think — 
(drinking  the  glass  of  wine.}  Well,  this  finality — has 
an  end.  To  work — to  work  ? — Good-bye.  Lord, 
what  a  Lazarus  this  is  !  To  my  room  with  all  that, 
little  Teresa. 

[Exit  carrying  in  one  pocket  Gil  Bias,  in  the  other 
"Nana,"  in  his  buttonhole  the  flower,  and 
gripped  very  hard  the  "volume  of  Kant. 

LAZ.  Teresa,  they  have  brought  no  letter  for  me  ? 

TER.  (preparing  to  remove  the  wine  and  the  biscuits), 
No,  senor. 

LAZ.  Patience :  you  did  not  tell  my  mother  I  had 
written  to  that  Senor  de  Bermudez. 

TER.  No,  senor. 

LAZ.  Has  my  mother  got  up  ? 

TER.  Got  up,  indeed  !  Before  you  returned  this 
morning  from  hunting,  Dona  Dolores  had  already  gone 
to  call  for  the  Senorita  Carmen  that  they  might  go  to 
Mass  together. 

LAI.  Good. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  73 

TER.  And  I  don't  know  how  she  rose  so  early,  nor 
how  she  found  courage  to  go  out. 

LAZ.  Why? 

TER.  Because  last  night  she  was  very  ill :  very  ill 
indeed. 

LAZ.  (starting  up).  My  mother ! 

TER.  Yes,  senor.  I  say  that  it  must  have  been  the 
nerves.  How  she  cried :  how  she  twisted  her  arms  ! 
Indeed  I  wanted  to  send  an  express  messenger  for 
you  to  come  back  at  once. 

LAZ.  Ah  !  my  God,  my  poor  mother  !  and  why  was 
I  not  informed  ?  I  would  have  mounted  on  horse- 
back ;  and  in  one  hour — here. 

TER.  Because  the  senora  would  not  have  it  so. 
"  Silence,  not  a  word  to  anybody,"  so  she  said,  and 
an  order  from  her  is  an  order. 

LAZ.  But  how  is  it  possible?  My  father  said 
nothing  to  me  ! 

TER.  He  was  not  informed :  he  went  to  the  theatre, 
afterwards  to  the  Casino  with  Don  Timoteo  and  Don 
Nemesio;  he  returned  late,  and  as  the  senora  had 
given  orders — "  to  nobody  " — nothing  was  said  to  him ; 
and  he  knew  nothing. 

LAZ.  But  how  was  it  ?  Why  was  it  ?  She  who  is 
never  ill  ! 

TER.  I  don't  know.  The  senora  dined  early  and 
alone.  Afterwards  she  went  out.  She  came  back  at 
ten  o'clock  :  she  could  scarcely  enter  her  room,  and 
immediately  fell  to  the  ground— just  like  a  tower  that 
falls. 

LAZ.  My  God  I  my  God !  And  you  never  informed 
me  ! 

TER.  Well,  I  am  informing  you  now.  And  in  spite  of 
what  she  said,  "  not  a  word."  But  as  to  you — for  your 
sake!  Oh !  when  it  concerns  you,  senorito.  (LAZARUS 
4 


74  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

pays  no  attention  to  her.)  But  don't  be  distressed  : 
this  morning  already  she  was  so  strong  and  so  well  : 
yes,  really,  very  pale  and  with  such  dark  circles  round 
the  eyes  !  but  so  strong.  We  women  are  thus  :  now 
we  are  dying  and  afterwards  we  revive  :  we  go  back 
to  death  and  again  we  return  to  life. 

LAZ.  You  mean  that  now  she  is  well  ?  But  entirely 
well? 

TER.  Don't  I  tell  you  she  is  as  well  as  could  be  ? 
Let  your  mind  rest,  senorito. 

LAZARUS,  very  much  agitated,  has  been  "walking 
about. 

LAZ.  Good,  good,  if  it  has  already  passed  off— in 
short,  when  my  mother  returns,  tell  me. 

TER.  You  have  no  other  orders  ? 

LAZ.  No.  (A  bell  rings  several  times.)  My  father 
is  calling  :  go,  go  quickly.  The  vibrating  of  the  bell 
makes  me  nervous. 

TER.  I  must  take  away  this.    (Takes  up  the  trays.) 

LAZ.  (the  bell  continues  ringing).  Take  it  away 
quickly  for  pity's  sake. 

TER.  On  the  instant ;  what  a  hurry  that  good 
gentleman  is  in ! 

LAZ.  And  if  they  bring  the  answer  from  Senor  de 
Bermudez. 

TER.  Immediately  afterwards.  (The  bell  con- 
tinues.) I  am  coming,  I  am  coming.  (She  says  this 
without  calling  aloud,  as  if  to  herself.) 

[Exit  TERESA. 

LAZ.  (alone).  What  she  has  told  me  about  my 
poor  mother-  has  unstrung  all  my  nerves.  I  am  not 
well.  Bah  !  I  am  not  ill.  How  Doctor  Bermudez 
will  laugh  at  me  when  I  consult  him.  The  fact  is 
that  I  am  very  apprehensive  ;  but  I  feel  strong  :  Javier 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  S  75 

says  to  me  every  moment :  "My  boy,  don't  strut 
about  on  your  heels  so  much."  Steady  ;  so,  steady. 
(He  walks  about,  treads  with  his  heels  and  laughs.} 
I  know  now  what's  the  matter.  I  am  very  happy  and 
I  have  a  horrible  dread  of  losing  so  much  happiness. 
Very  happy.  (Counting  on  his  fingers?)  My  father 
and  mother,  so  good  ;  Carmen,  who  adores  me  ;  I, 
who  am  raving  about  her ;  glory,  which  calls  me  ; 
I  who  answer,  "  Forward,  Lazarus  '' ;  my  eyes,  which 
are  my  own  and  are  never  satiated  with  drinking  in 
light  and  colours  ;  my  thought,  which  is  mine,  and 
which  does  not  tire  of  originating  wonders  ;  my  life, 
which  is  mine,  and  which  desire^  to  live  more,  to  live 
more — yes,  more  !  (A  pause^/T  They  say  that  life  is 
dull,  that  it  is  mournful.  Buffoons  !  Has  anything 
better  been  discovered  ?/  Is  it  better  to  be  stone 
which  has  no  nerves  to  quiver  with  delight  ?  Is  it 
better  to  be  water  which  always  runs  in  headlong 
stupidity  without  knowing  where  it  goes  ?  Is  it  better 
to  be  air  to  blow  without  motive  and  to  fill  itself  with 
the  foulest  earth  and  dust?  No,  it  is  better  to  be 
Lazarus.  (Resumes  the  counting  on  his  fingers?)  For 
Lazarus  has  very  good  parents  ;  he  has  Carmen  ;  he 
has  glory  ;  he  has  life  ;  and  he  has,  above  all,  thought, 
reason  !  Ha !  I  have  all  this  :  I  have  it :  what 
remains  to  be  done  if  I  have  it !  (Sits  down  in  a 
somewhat  cowering  manner?)  It  is  evident — because 
all  this  is  so  good,  and  because  I  have  it,  I  am  afraid 
to  lose  it.  I  am  as  terrified  as  a  little  child  ;  at  times^. 
it  seems  to  me  that  I  am  a  little  child,  and  I  am  seized 
with  impulses  to  run  to  my  mother  and  wrap  myself 
round  in  her  skirt.  A  man  who  almost  understands 
Kant  and  Hegel ;  who  writes  dramas  which  are  very 
well  received,  yes,  senor,  very  well  received  ;  who 
meditates  transcendental  works.  A  man,  in  every 


76  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

sense  a  man,  who  has  fought  duels  in  Madrid,  and 
has  had  a  little  love  affair  or  so — (laughing) — and 
very  pleasant  too :  the  practical  reason,  not  of  Kant 
but  of  Zola,  which  turns  the  Pure  Reason  of  Kant  into 
ridicule  and  makes  even  the  good  matron  laugh. 
Well  then,  this  formidable  Lazarus  at  times  is  a  child, 
and  he  would  like  his  mother  to  embrace  him  and  to 
buy  him  toys  !  To  be  a  child,  yes  ;  all  the  same 
it  is  good  to  be  a  child.  Nay.  I  should  like  it. 
(Laughing!)  But  what  absurdities !  Lord,  what 
absurdities  !  (Remains  cowering  in  his  chair \  thinking 
and  laughing  very  low.) 

Enter  TERESA. 

TER.  Senorito,  a  gentleman  has  given  me  this  card. 

LAZ.  (as  if  awaking).  A  gentleman?  Let  me  see 
— Doctor  Bermudez  !  But  why  has  he  put  himself  to 
inconvenience  ?  I  would  have  gone  to  him.  Let  him 
come  in.  Let  him  come  in.  Quick,  woman,  let  him 
come  in.  (Exit  TERESA.)  With  this  man  I  must 
have  much  prudence,  much  composure,  much  calm. 
If  he  had  heard  the  nonsense  that  I  was  talking  ! 
What  a  terror  ! 

TERESA,  (re-entering  and  announcing).  Sefior  de 
Bermudez.  [Exit  TERESA. 

Enter  BERMUDEZ. 

BERM.  Senor  Don  Lazarus  Mejia  ? 

LAZ.  Your  servant — very  much  your  servant — one 
who  is  grieved  to  the  heart  for  having  troubled  a 
person  such  as  you.  A  man  of  eminence — a  man  of 
knowledge.  ( With  much  courtesy ',  but  endeavouring  to 
restrain  himself.) 

BERM.  Not  so — not  so — I  received  your  letter. 

LAZ.  Indeed,  it  was  not  meant  that  you  should  give 
yourself  any  trouble.  I  begged  you  to  be  good 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  77 

enough  to  appoint  a  time  for  me  and  I  should  have 
gone  to  your  house.  But  take  a  seat.  I  cannot  allow 
you  to  remain  standing  an  instant  longer.  Sit  down  ! 
(Making  him  sit  down.}  Here— no— here— you  will 
be  better  here. 

BERM.  Many  thanks.  You  are  very  amiable ! 
( Takes  a  seat.} 

LAZ.  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  entitled  to  sit 
down  in  the  presence  of  a  man  like  yourself;  a 
national  glory  !  (Commands  himself  so  that  his  accent 
is  natural :  perhaps  however  he  errs  a  little  by  excess 
of  courtesy.) 

BERM.  For  goodness'  sake  ! 

LAZ.  A  man  of  European  fame  ! 

yL__B_ERM.    You    overwhelm    me.     I  don't  deserve — 
[^AsidelJ  He  is  very  engaging,  this  young  man.    They 
were  right  in  Madrid  to  say  that  he  has  plenty  of 
ability. 

LAZ.  You  don't  deserve  it  ?  Ah !  in  the  mouth  of 
a  celebrity  like  Doctor  Bermudez,  modesty  will  always 
have  a  voice,  but  it  has  no  vote. 

BERM.  Senor  de  Mejia.  (Aside.}  How  well  he 
speaks  ! 

LAZ.  Don't  treat  me  ceremoniously.  I  am  not 
deserving  of  so  much  solemnity.  "  Senor  de  Mejia"  ! 
(Laughing.}  Call  me  Lazarus.  I  really  don't 
deserve  anything  better;  treat  me  as  a  master 
might  a  pupil.  I  dare  not  say  as  a  kind  friend 
would  treat  a  respectful  friend. 

BERM.  As  you  please.  It  will  be  an  honour  for  me  ! 
(Aside.}  Very  engaging,  very  engaging  ! 

LAZ.  Well,  I  repeat  that  I  am  sorry  at  heart  for 
having  given  you  this  trouble. 

BERM.  Not  at  all.  ^already  told  your  mother  last 
night  that  if  at  any  other  time  she  required  me,  or  if 


78  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

she  wished  by  any  further  suggestions  to  make  me 
amplify  my  opinion,  I  was  unconditionally  at  her 
orders.  A  card  saying  to  me  "  Come,"  and  I  should 
come  instantly.  And  so  it  is  that  on  receiving  the 
letter  this  morning — as  you  may  imagine — I  said,  "  I 
must  place  myself  at  the  feet  of  that  lady,  and  I  must 
personally  become  acquainted  with  her  son,  a  national 
glory  of  the  future,  one  who  is  destined  to  have  a 
European  renown." 

LAZ.  Senor  de  Bermudez !  (Repudiating  the 
honour  with  a  gesture.  Aside.)  My  mother — last 
night — what  does  he  say  ?  (Commanding  himself, 
then  aloud.)  So  my  mother  went  last  night — to  see 
you — because 

BERM.  Yes,  senor,  she  has  already  explained  every- 
thing to  me.  That  you  were  out  hunting,  and  that 
you  did  not  mean  to  return  this  week  ;  that  she  had 
been  informed  that  I  was  going  back  to  Madrid  this 
day,  and  that  she  had  been  anxious  to  consult  me 
without  the  loss  of  a  moment  concerning  the  illness  of 
that  poor  young  man — a  cousin  or  a  nephew,  or  a 
relative — I  think  he  is  a  nephew  of  your  mother, 
whose  name  she  said  was  —  Don  Luis  —  Don 
Luis 

LAZ.  Quite  so — a  nephew.  You  have  it.  (Smiling. 
Then  aside.)  What's  this  ?  What  relative  is  that  ? 
Why,  it  is  not  true.  God  of  Heaven  !  (Aloud.)  A 
nephew — that's  it.  To  whom  God  does  not  give  sons, 

the  devil, (Laughing.)  Yes,  but  she  also  has  me 

— her  Lazarus,  her  son  ! 

BERM.  And  she  must  be  proud. 

LAZ.  Senor  de  Bermudez,  have  compassion  on  a 
beginner.  But  I  wish  you  to  explain  to  me  what  you 
had  the  kindness  to  explain  to  my  mother ;  because 
ladles — don't  understand  much  about  medical  science 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  79 

— and  though  I  understand  just  as  little  of  it,  never- 
theless  

BERM.  Quite  so  ;  it  is  a  speciality. 

LAZ.  A  speciality,  that's  it ;  it  is  a  speciality.  And 
moreover,  I  know  that  young  man  more  intimately — 
poor  Luis !  And  I  can  supply  you  with  fresh 
particulars. 

BERM.  Oh  !  those  of  your  mother  were  very  precise. 
She  has  a  keenly  observant  mind. 

LAZ.  Very  much  so  ;  don't  you  describe  it  well !  A 
keenly  observant  mind.  (Aside.)  My  God! — my 
mother — and  on  her  return  home — her  weeping — 
what  does  this  man  say  ? 

BERM.  Altogether  it  would  be  better  that  I  should 
see  the  poor  young  man  ;  but  should  that  not  be 
possible 

LAZ.  I  should  think  it  is  possible,  and  that  would 
be  the  best.  You  shall  see  him.  I  myself  will  take 
him  to  you — to  your  house.  Yes,  sefior,  to  your 
house ;  yes,  senor. 

BERM.  That  will  do  perfectly.  That  was  what 
I  said  to  your  mother,  but  she  told  me  in  reply  that  so 
long  as  things  don't  come  to  an  extremity,  families 
require  to  consider.  I  understand  and  I  impute  no 
blame. 

LAZ.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  Now,  at  this  very 
moment  you  shall  come  with  me  to  see  that — that 
poor  young  man.  A  man  like  you  !  Why,  there's  no 
difficulty  about  it. 

BERM.  (rising).    Then  I  await  your  orders. 

LAZ.  Allow  me,  my  friend,  my  dear  friend  :  first  of 
all  I  should  like — I  beg  of  you  to  tell  me  what  my 
mother  explained  to  you,  and  what  was  your  opinion  ; 
because,  although  she  related  everything  to  me  this 
morning,  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  it  from  your  lips. 


8o  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

One  learns  everything  by  listening  to  such  a  man  as 
Doctor  Bermudez.  (In  a  persuasive  tone.}  I  am  so 
anxious  that  you  should  speak,  and  that  I  should  hear 
you.  Indeed,  it  has  been  the  dream  of  my  existence. 
Speak,  speak. 

BERM.  Dear  Lazarus.    (Aside.}    I  have  fascinated 

him,  decidedly.     (Aloud.}    Your  mother  explained  to 

me  with  great  lucidity  all  the  antecedents    of   the 

I   patient :  his  sufferings  when  a  child,  his  character,  his 

!  studies,  his  excitable  imagination,  the  first  symptoms 

l  of  the  illness,  a  fainting  attack,  another  more  violent. 

LAZ.  (somewhat  drily].  All  that  I  know  already. 
Go  on.  ( With  extreme  cordiality?)  Go  on,  my  dear 
Bermudez. 

BERM.  The  doctor  is  rather  like  a  confessor,  and 
your  mother  did  not  object  to  letting  me  know  of  the 
youthful  days  of  the  father— of  the  father  of  the  young 
man. 

LAZ.  Ah  !  his  youthful  days — yes — his  youthful 
days — yes — yes — and  what  else  ? 

BERM.  His  vicious  conduct ;  his  unbridled  liber- 
tinism  

LAZ.  (excitedly).  Libertinism  !  (Controlling  him- 
self?) Yes.  (With  a  forced  laugh?)  Follies  of  youth. 
A  lady  always  exaggerates  these  things.  I  have  not 
been  a  saint  myself;  neither  have  you.  Doctor, 
doctor,  you  with  all  your  science  and  all  your 
gravity.  God  knows.  God  knows !  Oh !  these 
doctors !  (Giving  him  a  slap  on  the  back?)  And 
what  more  ? 

BERM.  (laughing).  We  are  mortals  and  sinners, 
friend  Lazarus. 

LAZ.  And  we  take  for  fine  gold  little  lenses  of  talc. 
Come,  come  to  the  talc. 

BERM.   Thus    stands    the    case— that    that    good 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  81 

gentleman,  the  father  of  the  patient,  reached  the  age 
of  gravity,  and  he  was  not  a  steady  man,  and  he  did 
not  correct  his  faults.  His  wife  seems  to  have  suffered 
very  much.  Is  all  this  exact  which  your  mother  told 
me?  Because  if  it  is  exact  it  must  be  taken  into 
account.  That's  the  reason  I  ask. 

LAZ.  (aside).  My  head  !  Oh  my  head  !  (Succeeds 
in  commanding  himself,  and  speaks  naturally. 
Aloud.)  See,  doctor,  those  are  details  of  which 
I  know  nothing.  But  if  my  mother  told  you  so,  it 
will  be  true.  My  mother  is  a  superior  spirit,  a  most 
pure  soul,  a  mother  beyond  comparison.  But  let  us 
not  speak  of  the  mother,  only  of  the  son,  that's  to  say 
of  the  son  of  the  other  mother.  Therefore  let's  see, 
let's  see.  What  more  did  she  tell  you  ? 

BERM.  That  to    prevent    the   son  from  becoming 
fully   acquainted  with  the  disorders  of  the  father —  1 
because  the  boy,    naturally,   was    growing   up,  the 
mother  had  to  send  him  to  a  college  in  France. ) 

LAZ.  (astde).  It  is  I.  It  is  I !  Ah  !  ah  !  Calm  ! 
let  me  be  calm  ! 

BERM.  What  do  you  say  ? 

LAZ.  Nothing.     I  laugh  at  those  family  tragedies — 

the  father  a  madcap,  and  the  son, And  as  you 

fill  me  with  such  respect — and  as  the  subject  is  so  sad 
— I  should  not  have  presumed  to  laugh.  Ah  !  Senor 
de  Bermudez,  what  a  world  this  is  ! — what  a  world 
this  is  !  Come,  come.  (Growing calm.)  Yes,  senor, 
the  history,  so  far  as  I  know,  is  entirely  correct. 
Then  they  sent  him  to  study  in  Madrid — that  un~) 
fortunate,  unfortunate  youth  :  but,  look  you,  not  so 
unfortunate — for  he  went  through  his  course  with 
distinction. 

BERM.  Quite  so,  and  the  father  remained  always 
the  same. 


82  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

LAZ.  (somewhat  harshly).  Let  us  not  speak  of  the 
father.  And  why  ?  Because  the  son  is  now  launched 
on  the  world  ;  then  let  us  leave  out  of  the  question  the 
other.  (Recollecting  himself?)  Ah  !  pardon  me.  I 
love  my  father  so  much,  I  respect  him  so  much,  that 
those  words  which  you  uttered  have  caused  me  much 
pain,  much  pain.  A  weakness  I  confess ;  a  man  of 
science  does  not  know  those  weaknesses;  but  we 
poets  are  thus .  You — you  raise  yourselves  above  the 
level  of  human  miseries.  The  eagle  soars  alike — eh  ? 
above  the  peak  of  granite  with  its  robe  of  frost — eh  ? 
and  over  the  infected  puddle — or  the  mire — the  mire 
— eh  ?  But  we  are  not  all  as  Doctor  Bermudez  ? 
(Grasping  his  hand.) 

BERM.  I  respect  your  delicacy:  but  science  is 
implacable.  A  father  who  has  consumed  his  life  in 
vice — 

LAZARUS  retreats  in  his  chair. 

Who  has  wallowed  with  all  the  energies  of  his  nature 
in  the  mire  of  riot,  who  has  heated  his  blood  in  the 
embers  of  all  impure  fires — runs  the  danger  of  trans- 
mitting to  his  son  nothing  but  the  germs  of  death  or 
the  germs  of  madness  ! 

LAZARUS  recoils  more  and  more. 
And  I  tell  you,  as  I  told  your  mother  last  night,  with- 
out prejudice  to  the  rectification  of  my  opinion  when 
I  have  examined  the  patient,  that  if  the  description 
which  you  have  given  me  is  exact — and  I  conclude 
that  it  is 

LAZ.  It  is.    What  then  ? 

BERM.  Ah  !  the  springs  of  life  cannot  be  corrupted 
with  impunity.  The  Son  of  that  father  will  very  soon 
sink  into  madness  or  into  idiocy.  A  madman  or  an 
idiot :  such  is  his  fate! 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  83 

(He  says  this  without  looking  round,  with  solemnity, 
like  one  who  pronounces  a  sentence  :  gazing  for- 
ward  and   motioning   with    his    arm    towards 
LAZARUS.     The   latter  cowers  in  his  chair  and 
looks  at  BERMUDEZ  with  horror.) 
LAZ.  Ah  !    No  !    What  ?    My  father  !     I  !    A  lie  ! 
A  lie  !     It  is  a  lie  !     (Hides  his  face  in  his  hands.) 

BERM.  What's  this  ?  Lazarus  !  Senor  de  Mejia  ! 
Are  you  ill?  What  do  you  say?  (Rising  and 
approaching  LAZARUS.)  I  don't  understand !  Can  it 
be?  What? 

LAZ.  That  I  am  the  madman  ?    Silence !    That  I 
am  the  idiot  ?    Silence  !     That  I  am  such — I  ?     Look 
at  me  well  :   study  me  well :  strengthen  your  judg-      I 
ment :  meditate,  examine,  give  sentence  ! 

BERMUDEZ  standing,  LAZARUS  seated  and  clutching 
the  doctor  by  the  arm. 

BERM.  But  this  is  not  fair,  Senor  de  Mejia  !  This 
is  not  just !  By  God — by  the  Holy  God  ! 

LAZ.  Fairness,  justice,  in  a  man  such  as  I  ?  Ber- 
mudez,  Bermudez,  I  did  wrong,  I  confess — (with  a 
mixture  of  courtesy,  sadness,  and  some  sarcasm) — An 
idiot  who  presents  his  most  humble  excuses  to  a  wise 
man  !  Be  generous,  pardon  me. 

BERM.  You  have  not  understood  me.  I  am  sorry 
for  you,  Lazarus,  because  I  have  given  you — a  shock 
— a  bad  time  of  it,  without  cause— believe  me, 
without  any  cause.  God  help  me,  these  dramatic 
authors— no,  one  is  not  safe  with  them  !  (Wishing to 
turn  the  matter  off" with  a  laugh.) 

LAZ.  Let  us  be  calm,  let  us  be  calm.  I  want  the 
truth  ;  there  still  remains  to  me  some  glimmer  of  reason, 
and  I  can  understand  what  you  say  to  me.  Ha !  the 
truth — Bermudez,  the  truth  !  It  is  the  last  truth  that 


84  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

I  can  understand,  and  I  wish  to  enjoy  it.  (Rising.} 
Out  with  it !  I  still  understand — yes — still ! 

BERM.  Friend  Lazarus !  By  all  the  saints  of  the 
heavenly  court !  

LAZ.  No,  I  still  keep  my  senses  ;  I  shall  explain  to 
you  all  that  has  passed.  _My  mother,  pretending  to 
inquire  about  another,  inquired  about  me ;  I,  pre- 
tending to  be  interested  on  another's  account,  was 
interested  on  my  own,  and  a  poor  mother  and  a  lost 
^wretch  have  between  them  cajoled  a  wise  man.  Ah  ! 
cajoled — no :  pardon.  We  wished  to  know  the  truth- 
nothing  more ;  but  as  the  truth  is  treacherous,  it  is 
necessary  at  times  to  drag  it  forth  by  treason.  I 
humbly  beg  that  you  will  pardon  us — my  mother — 
and  myself. 

BERM.  I  tell  you  that  I  cannot  recover  from  my 
surprise  ;  that  I  am  cut  to  the  heart  for  having  spoken 
with  such  levity.  I  have  already  told  you  that  my 
opinion  was  haphazard — quite  haphazard — without 
examination  of  the  patient.  (Seeking  where  to  go.) 

LAZ.  Well,  .here  is  the  patient.  Don't  I  tell  you 
that  I  am  the  man  ?  Oh,  have  no  fear  :  I  am  a  man 
capable  of  looking  face  to  face  upon  death,  and  of 
answering  the  grimace  of  madness  with  another 
grimace  even  more  grotesque.  While  a  heart 
remains  to  me,  the  head  will  obey. 

BERM.  For  God's  sake,  calm  yourself.  All  this  is 
not  serious. 

LAZ.  I  am  perfectly  calm;  I  am  still  master  of 
myself.  Sit  down.  (Makes  him  take  a  seat.)  Let  us 
talk  quietly.  Tell  me  all,  but  in  a  low  voice,  that  my 
mother  may  not  know  ;  that  she  may  not  know.  And 
of  my  father,  not  a  word!  Of  my  father — no,  enough — 
nothing  !  I  have  been  a  madmanjn  Madrid^  so  that 
the  madness  is  mine.  It  is  all  mine  !  Oh  !  you  deny 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

that  it  is  all  mine  ?  That  is  not  right,  Senor  de  Ber- 
mudez.  Take  to  yourself  the  accusation  that  it  is  not 
right.  You  deny  me  my  own  reason,  and  you  even 
wish  to  deprive  me  of  my  own  madness,  saying — 
saying— that  my  father— silence  I  Well,  my  reason 
may  not  belong  to  me  :  patience  !  But  my  madness 
belongs  to  me  ;  I  swear  to  you  that  it  belongs  to  me, 
and  I  shall  defend  it — l^shall  defendjt,  Bermudez  ! 
(Advances  upon  the  physician.  Then  restrains  him- 
self.} And  now,  let  us  talk  soberly  of  myself — of  my 
suffering. 

BERM.  Senor  de  Mejia,  dear  Lazarus — as  for  what  I 
told  you  a  while  since,  it  was  purely  hypothetical ; 
now  that  I  know  you,  I  modify  my  opinion  in  every 
point. 

LAZ.  (with  a  mocking  smile).  Indeed?  By  God, 
Senor  de  Bermudez,  that  I  am  a  madman  we'll  let 
pass ;  but  I  am  not  yet  an  idiot. 

BERM.  By  God,  Senor  de  Mejia,  I  am  sure  that  I 
shall  go  out  of  this  house  either  an  idiot  or  a  mad- 
man ! 

LAZ.  When  do  you  calculate  that  I  shall  suffer 
the  decisive  attack — the  last :  that  of  eternal  night ; 
that  which  surrounds  us  with  blackness  for  ever? 
How  easily  it  is  known  that  I  have  been  a  poet,  eh  ? 
Eternal  night,  eternal  blackness  !  Is  it  not  true  ? 
However,  say — when  ?  What  term  do  you  allow  me  ? 
A  year  ?  three  months  ?  or  is  it  immediately  ?  Can- 
didly. You  see,  now,  that  I  still  hear,  and  under- 
stand, and  even  speak  poetically.  Eternal  blackness, 
eternal  night !  However,  let  me  know — let  me  know. 
A  year,  eh  ? 

BERM.  It  is  readily  perceived  that  you  are  a  poet. 
You  plunge  into  the  regions  of  phantasy.  You  see, 
your  nervous  system  is  shaken,  somewhat  shaken.  I 


86  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

don't  deny  it ;  but  I  make  myself  responsible  for  your 
cure  ;  do  you  want  more  ? 

LAZ.  We  are  coming  to  the  point.  As  for  my  cure, 
I  am  ready  to  believe  that.  But  the  decisive  attack 
— when  ?  I  have  such  a  feeling  these  few  days  past, 
that  I  think  it  will  be  very  soon. 

BERM.  Ravings,  ravings  !  these  are  ravings. 

LAZ.  Precisely.  Ah  !  you  have  said  it — ravings. 
Come,  an  effort.  Will  it  be  to-morrow,  will  it  be 
to-day  ? 

I     BERM.  Neither  to-day,  nor  to-morrow,  nor  within 
twenty  years,  if  you  keep  your  senses. 

LAZ.  If  I  keep  my  senses  !  You  are  ingenious. 
"  I  shall  not  lose  my  senses  if  I  keep  my  senses." 
Naturally. 

BERM.  A  good  sign  :  now  we  are  joking. 

LAZ.  Yes,  I  am  very  quiet.  At  first  I  felt  a  wave 
of  blood  roll  through  my  brain  ;  then  a  wave  of  ice, 
which  spread  through  all  my  being.  And  now— well 
— quiet— tired,  a  little  tired,  nothing  more. 

BERM.  Good  ;  then  take  a  rest,  put  your  mind  at 
ease ;  and  before  my  setting  out  for  Madrid  I  shall 
return.  I  have  to  convince  you 

LAZ.  I  am  convinced !  Oh,  my  God !  I  don't 
wish  to  keep  you  any  longer,  I  have  sufficiently 
abused  your  kindness. 

BERM.  (making  a  movement  to  withdraw).  Then  if 
you  will  permit  me 

LAZ.  Yes,  senor,  assuredly  (accompanying  him}. 
And  don't  have  any  ill-will  towards  me. 

BERM.  Good  God — no  ;  however,  my  friend 

LAZ.  (detaining  hitri).  One  moment !  (In  his  ear.) 
When? 

BERM.  Some  other  time. 

LAZ.  No  ;  the  one  thing  that  I  wish  you  to  tell  me, 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  87 

is  this  :  "  Lazarus,  there  is  no  hope  ;  the  attack  will 
be  next  month,  or  next  week,  or  to-morrow,  or  to-night, 
or  this  very  hour,"  in  short,  when  must  it  be  ?  This 
is  the  only  thing  you  have  to  tell  me :  I  ask  no 
more. 

BERM.  But  how  can  you  have  me  knowingly  utter 
nonsense  ? 

LAZ.  (energetically).  Because  you  have  the  inevi- 
table power  of  telling  me  the  truth ;  however  sharp, 
however  bitter,  however  mournful,  it  may  be,  you 
must  tell  it  to  me.  It  is  a  question  of  honour,  of  life 
or  death.  Now  you  shall  understand  me.  (In  a  low 
voice  in  the  doctor's  ear.)  I  love,  I  adore  Carmen  ; 
our  wedding  has  been  arranged  :  it  will  take  place  in 
a  short  time — within  fifteen  days.  And  now,  answer 
me  :  Can  I,  in  conscience,  without  being  guilty  of 
infamy,  can  I  bind  the  existence  of  Carmen  to  my 
existence — to  the  existence  of  an  idiot  ? 

BERM.  What  a  question  ! 

LAZ.  If  you  are  a  man  of  honour .  What,  go 

away  without  answering  me  ?  Well,  the  way  is  free 
to  you  (withdrawing  from  him).  Oh  !  I'll  not  detain 
you. 

BERM.  By  God,  Lazarus 

LAZ.  But  reflect,  that  through  the  cowardice  of  a 
moment,  through  not  having  spoken  to  me  as  one 
man  speaks  to  another  man — for  I  still  am  a  man — 
you  are  about  to  do  great  mischief.  Because  if  you 
don't  say  to  me,  "  Renounce,"  I  shall  not  renounce 
Carmen  ;  I  shall  embrace  her  and  drag  her  down 
with  me  to  the  abyss. 

BERM.  You  see  that  I  can  do  no  more. 

LAZ.  You  see  that  love  is  life— the  oil  of  life  which 
propagates  itself.  And  what  will  be  our  posterity  ? 
Come,  say  it,  boldly.  A  swarm  of  neurotics,  of  idiots, 


88  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

of  lunatics,  perhaps  of  criminals.  A  common  sewer 
hurrying  on  to  death  the  wrecks  of  humanity.  In 
candour,  in  honesty,  say  it. 

BERM.  Oh  !  what  a  head  !  Indeed,  if  you  continue 
thus,  I  assure  you  that  you  will  go  mad. 

LAZ.  By  the  memory  of  your  mother,  by  the  honour 
of  your  family,  by  the  happiness  of  your  children,  by 
the  sacred  duty  of  your  profession,  by  your  conscience 
as  an  upright  man,  by  your  God,  by  piety,  by  com- 
passion  ,  if  you  had  a  daughter  would  you  allow 

her  to  marry  me  ? 

BERM.  To-day  ?    No  !  ( Wishes  to  continue.) 

LAZ.  Enough !  nor  to-morrow  either.  Enough — 
never — thank  you.  My  sentence  !  Carmen,  Carmen  ! 
(Falls  on  the  sofa.) 

BERM.  Lazarus — for  God's  sake — you  did  not  allow 
me  to  finish.  Lazarus  !  What  a  creature  !  Listen  to 
me.  I  must  call.  (Pulls  the  bell.)  He  is  losing  his 
wits — Lazarus  !  (The  bell.)  Eh  !  Here  !  (going  to 
the  door.) 

Enter  DOLORES  and  DON  JUAN. 

BERM.  Senora ! 

DOL.  (running  to  him).  Bermudez  ! 

JUAN  (to  BERMUDEZ).  My  Lazarus  ! 

DOL.  (to  BERMUDEZ).  My  boy  ! 

JUAN.  But  what  is  this  ?  Lord,  what  is  this  ? 

LAZ.  (rising).  Nothing.  We  called — they  did  not 
appear.  We  continued  to  call — and  you  have  come. 
And  I  called  because  I  wished  to  introduce  you  to  my 
kind  friend,  Doctor  Bermudez.  My  mother  (intro- 
ducing her) ;  you  already  know  each  other.  Is  it  not 
true  that  you  know  each  other  ? 

DOL.  My  son ! 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  89 

She  and  LAZARUS  embrace. 

LAZ.  (to  BERMUDEZ).  Don't  be  surprised.  As  I 
was  hunting  a  whole  week — and  as  we  did  not  see 
each  other  on  my  return — we  were  embracing. 

BERM.  It's  natural. 

LAZ.  My  father  (introducing  him).  I  have  already 
seen  my  father  this  morning,  that's  why  I  don't 
embrace  him.  (JUAN  looks  at  him  imploringly.) 
However,  that  you  may  not  imagine  I  love  him  less 
than  my  mother,  I  shall  embrace  him  likewise. 
Father  ! 

JUAN.  Lazarus  !  (Embracing  him.)  Closer  to  me  1 
closer  !  so  !  (To  DOLORES,  aside.)  You  see, 
Dolores,  you  see  ?  He  has  such  strength ;  he  has 
nearly  squeezed  the  breath  out  of  me.  It's  all  folly 
what  you  have  been  telling  me. 

DOL.  Yes— quite  true — folly. 

JUAN  (to  BERMUDEZ).  What's  this  boy  suffering 
from  ? 

BERM.  Nothing  :  in  substance,  nothing. 

JUAN  (to  DOL.).  Are  you  listening  ?  What  a  head 
you  have  ! 

LAZ.  Make  your  minds  easy.  Delicate — slightly 
delicate.  Don't  be  cast  down,  mother. 

DOL.  (caressing  him).  Lazarus, -my  son,  my  Lazarus ! 

JUAN  (approaching  LAZARUS  with  envy).  And 
must  I  be  cast  down  or  not  ?  Oh,  it  matters  little 
whether  or  not  I  be  cast  down. 

LAZ.  Neither  must  you  be  down-hearted,  father. 
There  is  no  cause.  I  am  perfectly  well ;  let  Ber- 
mudez  tell  you.  And  I  am  going  to  work  for  a  while 
(with  anguish),  because  I  can  do  no  more  (restraining 
himself) — I  can  do  no  more  with  this  idleness,  eh  ? 
And  with  the  regimen  that  you  have  prescribed  for  me 


90  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

— and  by  following  your  advice — within  a  short  time 
you  shall  see — the  resurrection  of  Lazarus  !  Good-bye, 
Bermudez  ;  my  own  mother,  father  and  sefior — illus- 
trious doctor — note  that  phrase — that  phrase — the 
resurrection  of  Lazarus.  Ah  !  for  this  Lazarus  there 
is  no  resurrection.  [Exit. 

JUAN  (to  BERMUDEZ).  Speak,  by  Christ  crucified  ! 
I  know  that  it  is  nothing — but  I  wish  you  to  speak. 
Come,  my  Lazarus — what  ?  Why  does  this  woman 
say  such  things  ?  Jesus,  Jesus,  what  a  woman  !  You 
have  always  been  the  same.  ( To  BERMUDEZ.)  Don't 
speak  lightly — these  are  very  important  matters. 
However,  come  !  let  me  know,  let  me  know  ! 

BERM.  Sefior  Don  Juan,  you  understand — 

DOL.  Have  you  changed  your  opinion  ? 

BERM.  Substantially  it  remains  unchanged. 

DOL.  My  God  !  my  God  !  (Throws  herself  sobbing 
on  a  chair.) 

BERM.  But  we  must  have  a  little  calmness ;  Senora, 
for  God's  sake. 

JUAN.  Calm  ?  I  should  think  so  ;  since  what  you 
two  say  is  impossible  :  then  nothing  else  was  required. 
As  if  this  could  do  no  more  than  come  down  upon  a 
genius  like  Lazarus — and  all  in  a  moment.  If  it  were 
I — good,  because  I — Sefior  de  Bermudez — I  may  be 
puffed  off  any  day  ;  but  Lazarus,  Lazarus,  consider 
well  what  you  say,  for  these  things  are  very  important. 
And  they  must  be  thought  over  deliberately.  Very 
important — very  important  indeed. 

BERM.  You  are  right,  Don  Juan.  And  now,  you'll 
both  excuse  me,  I  am  deeply  affected— and  I  could 
not  co-ordinate  two  ideas. 

JUAN  (aside,  to  his  wife).  Are  you  listening  ?  He 
could  not  co-ordinate  two  ideas.  I  say,  I  say,  why 
did  I  trust  to  him  ! 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  91 

BERM.  Later  on — to-morrow — some  other  day — I 
shall  have  the  pleasure  of  paying  my  compliments  to 
you  and  of  seeing  Lazarus.  Now,  permit  me  to  retire. 

DOL.  (rising  and  hurrying  towards  hint).  But  you 
are  not  yet  going  back  to  Madrid  ?  No,  for  God's 
sake! 

BERM.  No,  senora.  I  shall  remain  here  fifteen  or 
twenty  days  longer. 

DOL.  Then,  come  again  ;  come  again,  I  implore 
you  ! 

JUAN.  Yes  ;  come  again. 

BERM.  Yes,  senor,  I  shall  come  again. 

DOL.  To-morrow  ? 

JUAN.  If  you  gave  a  little  look  in  to-night — eh  ? 
You  could  take  coffee  with  us.  I  have  some 
sherry 

BERM.  To-night  I  cannot.     I  shall  come  to-morrow. 

DOL.  To-morrow,  then,  Bermudez.  (Accompany- 
ing him.)  Save  my  son  ! 

JUAN.  See  you  to-morrow,  Senor  de  Bermudez.  And 
have  a  care  what  you  do  with  my  Lazarus  ! 

BERM.   Till  to-morrow,  then,  Senora.     (Pressing 
her  hand.)    And  my  dear  senor. 
DOLORES  falls  on  a  chair :  JUAN  walks  about  with 
difficulty,  but  with  an  air  of  great  vigour. 

JUAN.  This  man  does  not  know  what  he's  talking 
about.  You  have  now  heard  him ;  he  can't  co-ordi- 
nate two  ideas.  How  simple  we  are  !  What,  and  do 
people  lose  their  talents  and  lose  their  heads  as  one 
might  lose  a  hat  ?  Here,  I  got  rid  of  my  hat,  and 
thus  got  rid  of  my  head  ?  Bah,  bah  /  Idiots  are 
what  they  are  from  infancy.  Nor  do  I  say  idiots  only 
— fools  have  been  fools  all  through  life ;  there  is 
nobody  more  consistent  than  a  fool. jf  But  as  to  a  man 
of  genius  !  Oh  !  Genius  !  Tut,  absurdities  of  doctors  ! 


92  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

X ' 

He  to  pronounce  judgment  on  my  Lazarus  !  He  who 
can't  co-ordinate  two  ideas — on  Lazarus,  who  is  as 
familiar  with  the  "  finality  without  end  "  as  he  is  with 
the  Our  Father  !  Come,  answer.  Am  I  right  ? 

DOL.  Would  to  God  it  might  be  so  ! 

JUAN.  But  don't  you  think  it  is  false— all  that  that 
buffoon  has  told  us  ? 

DOL.  (with  desperation).  And  if  it  were  true  ?  If  it 
were  true  ?  What  then  ?  Then,  why  was  I  born  ? 
(Advancing  upon  DON  JUAN,  who  retreats.}  My 
illusions  lost  through  you  !  My  youth  blighted 
through  you  !  My  dignity  sneered  at  through  you ! 
After  twenty  years  of  sacrifices  in  order  to  be  deserv- 
ing of  my  Lazarus — good  for  him  !  loyal  for  him  ! 
honourable  for  him  !  And  to-day  ?  No.  You  have 
always  been  a  wretch  :  but  this  time  you  are  right. 
Impossible  !  Impossible !  God  could  not  let  it  be 
so. 

JUAN.  Well,  I  have  been  a  wretch — there's  no 
getting  over  it.  But  do  not  call  to  mind  all  that  — 
and  above  all,  don't  speak  of  it.  Say  that  you  forgive 
me — forgive  me,  Dolores. 

DOL.  What  does  it  matter  to  you — my  forgive- 
ness? 

JUAN.  It  matters  to  us  both.  If  you  don't  pardon 
me,  and  at  the  same  time  God  purposes  to  chastise 
me,  and  chastises  me  in  my  Lazarus — *'  He  might 
have  been  a  genius,  here  you  have  in  him  an  idiot." 
These  things  are  very  serious.  Come  come,  don't  say 
that. 

DOL.-  What  things  you  do  say  !  You,  too,  talk  at 
random.  No  matter — under  such  circumstances.  I 
pardon  you  with  all  my  heart. 

JUAN.  Thank  you,  Dolores.  Thus  we  are  more 
secure. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  93 

DOL.  (clinging  to  htm).  But  help  me  to  save 
Lazarus. 

JUAN.  With  my  whole  soul.  Though  I  had  to  give 
up  for  him  all  the  life  that  remains  to  me. 

DOL.  Give  your  life !  Ha  !  what  life  have  you  ?  All 
the  life  that  God  first  granted  you,  you  should  give  him. 

JUAN.  Dolores! 

DOL.  Ah  !  it's  true.  I  had  pardoned  you.  I  shall 
not  recall  my  word.  But  what  are  we  to  do  ? 

JUAN.  Take  him  to  Madrid,  that  the  best  known 
physicians  may  see  him. 

DOL.  Well  thought  of ! 

JUAN.  AndjhgnjtQL^Paris.  We  shall  consult  _all 
the  eminent  men. 

DOL.  Quite  so.    Then  to  Germany. 

JUAN.  And  to  England.  The  English  know  a 
great  deal.  Bah  !  there  is  plenty  of  science  dispersed 
throughout  the  world. 

DOL.  Then  we  shall  collect  it  all  for  Lazarus. 

JUAN.    Without  fail !     All  for  him  !     Whatever 
remains  of  my  fortune  for  him  ! 
much,  but  I  am  still  rich. 

DOL.  I  have  never  called  you  to  a  reckoning.  You 
have  squandered  your  own. 

JUAN.  No,  senora  :  no,  sefiora.  It  was  not  mine. 
I  see  it  now.  It  belonged  to  Lazarus.  But  Lord !  I 
did  not  know  I  was  going  to  have  Lazarus.  Dolores, 
we  must  save  him. 

DOL.  We  hang  on  to  his  reason  like  two  creatures 
in  despair,  that  it  may  not  fly  away.  Is  it  not  true  ? 
(Clinging  to  him.) 

JUAN.  Like  two  of  the  desperate,  and  like  two 
parents.  Is  it  not  so  ?  (Pressing  her  to  him.)  And 
we  shall  save  him,  eh  ?  Don't  say  no  ;  don't  say  no  ! 
(Falls  weeping  on  a  sofa,)  I  have  been  bad,  but  with- 


94  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

out  bad  intention.  I  did  not  know  this.  Would  that 
I  had  been  told  !  Lazarus,  my  Lazarus  ! 

DOL.  Don't  be  distressed.  Don't  you  see  that  you 
will  not  have  energy  to  struggle  ? 

JUAN.  I'll  not  have  energy  ?  Ah !  you'll  see.  Ho  ! 
ho  !  I  have  no  energy  ! 

DOL.  I  love  to  see  you  thus.  And  believe  me  that 
Bermudez  exaggerates. 

JUAN.  He  is  a  fanatic — a  buffoon — a  madman  that 
can't  co-ordinate  two  ideas.  Ah,  blockhead.  (Shaking 
his  fist.)  I  don't  know  how  I  keep  my  head.  My 
breast  is  burning.  My  throat  is  dry.  (Pulls  the  bell.) 
Teresa  !  eh  !  Teresa  ! 

DOL.  (calling).  Teresa !  (Turning  to  JUAN.) 
What's  the  matter? 

JUAN.  Nothing— nothing. 


TERESA  entering. 
TER.  Senor? 

JUAN.  Bring  me  a  glass  of  sherry.     No,  a  glass  of 
water — water  only. 
___T_ER.  Yes,  senor.  [Exit. 

JUAN  (walking  about).  From  this  day  I  have  to 
mortify  myself — on  bread  and  water,  like  an  anchorite 
— all  for  Lazarus.  Come,  is  not  this  to  be  put  to  my 
credit  ? 

DOL.  Yes ;  but  much  prudence.  Let  nobody  know 
anything. 

JUAN.  Nothing.  Our  journeys  will  be  journeys  of 
pleasure  ;  artistic  voyages,  that  Lazarus  may  see  the 
world  and  gain  instruction.  If  all  these  were  false 
terrors  ! 

DOL.  Not  a  word  to  anybody. 

JUAN.  Not  to  Carmen*-say  nothing  to  Carmen. 

DOL.  Poor  Carmen,  my  poor  angel  !  But  you  are 
right.  The  first  is  Lazarus. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  95 

JUAN.  The  first— that's  clear.  But  that  girl  does 
not  come,  and  I  am  choking. 

Enter  TERESA  and  DON  TlMOTEO. 

TER.  (announcing,  and  with  the  glass  of  water). 
Here  is  Don  Timoteo. 

JUAN.  Let  him  come  in. 

TER.  He  is  already  in. 

JUAN  (to  DOLORES).  Silence,  and  let  us  affect  in- 
difference. 

DOL.  (aside).  Indifference  and  gaiety.  ( Wiping  her 
eyes.  DON  JUAN  drinks  a  glass  of  water.) 

JUAN  (to  DOLORES).  Will  you  take  some  ?  Drink, 
dear.  Be  calm  !  [Exit  TERESA. 

DOL.  Thank  you  ;  I  am  calm  now. 

TIM.  Dona  Dolores  ! 

DOL.  Friend  Don  Timoteo  ! 

JUAN.  My  dear  Timoteo  !  (Wishing  to  embrace 
him.) 

TIM.  Don't  embrace  me.  Don't  you  see  thai  I 
have  come  according  to  etiquette  ?  All  in  black  ! 

DOL.  In  black!    Why? 

JUAN.  Why? 

TIM.  Don't  be  alarmed  ;  it  is  not  mourning,  but 
etiquette.  I  come  in  all  solemnity.  Now  you  shall 
see.  Isn't  Carmen  here  ? 

DOL.  We  went  together  to  hear  Mass.  She  came 
back  with  me — and  she  is  now  in  my  sitting-room 
with  Don  Nemesio  and  with  Javier — so  merry  ! 

TIM.  Then  let  everybody  come  here !  (DOLORES 
rings  the  bell.)  Everybody  —  except  Lazarus ;  he 
must  come  afterwards.  Ah  !  solemnity  !  solemnity  ! 
(Laughing.) 

TER.  (entering).  Senora  .  .  . 

DOL.  Let  the  Senorita  Carmen  have  the  goodness  to 
come  here. 


96  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

TIM.  She  and  all— all.  And  till  they  come  let  no 
one  speak  to  me. 

DOL.  (aside  to  DON  JUAN).  Don't  you  guess  ? 

JUAN  (aside).  Yes.  [A  pause. 

TIM.  Solemn  silence!  Silence,  a  precursor  of 
something  very  grave.  Ha  !  ha  ! 

Enter  CARMEN,  NEMESIO,  and  JAVIER. 

CAR.  (to  her  father).  Did  you  call  me  ? 
TIM.  Silence,  little  one.    Don't  you  see  how  grave 
we  all  are  ? 

CAR.  But  what's  the  matter  ? 

TIM.  (to  his  daughter).  You  stand  beside  Dolores. 

A  movement  among  all:  CARMEN  embraces 

DOLORES. 
So  :  that's  well. 

DOL.  My  own  daughter  ! 

JUAN  (aside).  God  assist  me  ! 

NEM.  Ah— ha ! 

JAV.  (to  NEMESIO).  We  are  having  a  wedding. 

TIM.  Silence  ! — Are  we  ready  ?  All  attention — and 
every  solemnity — for  I  am  going  to  begin.  Ah  !  you, 
Javier,  being  the  youngest  man  here,  shall  go  out  in 
haste  at  the  fitting  moment  to  find  Lazarus — "  Lazarus ! 
Lazarus  ! "  You  understand  ? — So,  so — all  very  quiet : 
hanging  on  my  lips.  (A  pause.)  Senor  Don  Juan 
Mejia — (with  comic  solemnity?)  My  dear  sir — The 
devil,  I  seem  as  if  I  were  going  to  write  a  letter  ! 
— Juanito,  you  asked  me  for  the  hand  of  Carmen  for 
Lazarus  :  I  have  consulted  the  girl,  she  is  dying  about 
the  boy,  and  now  I  bring  the  girl  to  the  boy.  And  I 
say  before  all — Let  them  be  married — the  devil — let 
them  be  married  ! — (with  great  energy.) — The  pro- 
gramme in  these  cases — gentlemen,  the  programme. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  97 

— The  blushing,  the  weeping,  the   smiling,  the  em- 
bracing ! 

(All   spontaneously   go  through   the    instructions. 
CARMEN  and  DOLORES  embrace,  and  DOLORES 
weeps  passionately.     NEMESIO  and  JAVIER  laugh 
while  pointing  out  the  groups.     TlMOTEO  and 
NEMESIO  likewise  embrace.     Then  TIMOTEO,  as 
if  recollecting  himself,  continues—} 
Javier — go  and  look  for  Lazarus — Away,  the  situation 
is  falling  flat ! 
JAV.  I  am  off — I  am  off  !     Lazarus  !     Lazarus  ! 

[Exit. 

CAR.  Mother  1 

DOL.  My    own    daughter  —  my    own   daughter  ! 
(Aside.}     My  God  !     My  God  ! 
TIM.  (to  DON  JUAN).    And  you  say  nothing? 
JUAN.  Why,  nothing  more  was  required. 
TIM.  But  he  is  not  coming. 


Re-enter  JAVIER  and  LAZARUS  ;  the  latter  pale, 
disordered,  and  materially  dragged  along  by  the 
former. 

LAZ.  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?    Where  ? 

JAV.  Come,  man,  come  ...  to  happiness  ! 

LAZ.  What's  this  ?  What  do  they  want  with  me  ? 
Why  do  they  call  me  ? 

TIM.  Tableau !  Carmen  is  yours  !  I  bring  her 
to  you  !  You  are  to  be  married  !  (To  DON  JUAN.) 
Eh !  you  father  of  a  cork-tree,  say  something  to  them ; 
I  have  gone  through  all  my  part ! 

LAZ.  Carmen — she — is  it  true  ?    My  Carmen  ! 

DOL.  Your  Carmen — she  is  yours. 

JUAN.  What  the  devil  !  She  is  yours — be  happy, 
and  let  the  world  founder !  what  do  I  care  for  the 
world ! 

5 


98  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

LAZ.  Mine,  mine  !  I  may  go  to  her  !  fold  her  in 
my  arms  !  embrace  her  with  all  my  soul !  drink  her 
in  with  my  eyes  !  I  may  if  I  like  ? 

JUAN.  Yes  !  enough  that  you  say — yes  ! 

LAZ.  Oh,  the  infamy  of  it !  Oh,  the  treachery  ! 
Carmen  ! 

CAR.  (going  up  to  him}.     Lazarus  ! 

LAZ.  No,  keep  off!  To  whom  are  you  coming? 
You  are  not  to  be  mine  !  Never — never — never  ! 

CAR.  He  casts  me  off  !  He  casts  me  off !  I  knew 
it !  Mother !  mother  !  (Falls  into  the  arms  oj 
DOLORES.) 

DOL.  Daughter  of  my  heart  ! 

TIM.  My  daughter  !  What  have  you  done  ?  What 
have  you  done  ? 

NEM.  But  I  don't  understand. 

JAV.  I  do. 

All  hasten  to  help  CARMEN. 

JUAN.  Lazarus — my  son  ! 

LAZ.  (embracing  his  father).     Father — father — you 
are  my  father,  save  me  ! 
"   JUAN/Yes,  I  shall  save  you — I  gave  you  life  ! 

LAZ.  You  gave  me  life  !  But  that's  not  enough  : 
give  me  more  life — to  live,  to  love,  to  be  happy — give 
me  life  for  my  own  Carmen — give  me  more  life,  or 
cursed  be  the  life  which  you  gave  me  ! 

[Falls  insensible. 


END   OF  ACT   II. 


ACT  III. 

The  scene  represents  a  room  in  the  country  seat  of  DON 
JUAN,  on  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir •,  in  accor- 
dance with  the  description  in  the  earlier  part  of  the 
first  act,  although  with  some  pieces  of  furniture^  of 
a  more  recent  Pe^da^d^j^j^sobexja^f.  There 
still  remain  some  divans,  the  carpet  and  various 
objects  of  art.  Furthermore,  a  little  table  and  a 
low  chair.  In  the  background  is  a  balcony  or 
terrace,  which  is  understood  to  encircle  the  building. 
There  is  an  ample  view  of  the  sky  and  of  the 
horizon.  If  the  balcony  can  be  made  to  slope 
somewhat  towards  the  left,  so  much  the  better  for 
the  final  scene.  A  door  at  the  right,  another  to 
the  left.  A  lounge  to  the  right :  to  the  left  a  sofa  : 
a  lighted  lamp  on  some  table  to  the  side  or  at  the 
back.  It  is  night :  the  sky  blue  and  starlight ;  as 
the  act  proceeds  the  lights  of  dawn  gradually 
ascend. 

DON  TIMOTEO,  JAVIER  and  PACA  are  dis- 
covered; the  last  named  walks  about  the  back  and 
on  the  terrace  as  if  to  arrange  something :  she  is 
dressed  in  a  black  or  very  dark  costume  :  mantle  ' 
of  black  crape  and  with  fringes. 

1  The  original  "panolon"  is  a  sort  of  cloak  or  shawl  or 
blanket-like  covering  worn  by  Andalusian  women. 
99 


loo  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

TIM.  And  so  Dolores  wrote  to  you  ? 

JAV.  Yes,  senor.  Lazarus  wished  to  see  me  :  my 
company  was  very  much  wanted  to  hasten  on  his 
convalescence :  he  was  talking  constantly  about  me. 
Finally,  I  said  :  "  I  must  go  there,"  I  took  the  train, 
and  two  hours  ago  I  planted  myself  at  the  door  of  this 
country  seat,  of  this  delightful  country  seat ;  which 
ought  to  have  admirable  views,  as  far  as  I  have  been 
able  to  judge  by  the  feeble  light  of  the  stars. 

TIM.  But  didn't  you  know  it  ?  Weren't  you 
acquainted  with  Don  Juan's  country  seat  ? 

JAV.  No,  senor. 

TIM.  (waggishly],  I  was.  I  have  known  it  for 
many  years.  I  knew  it — ay,  when  Juan  and  I  were 
young  men !  When  I  used  to  call  him  Juanito,  and 
he  called  me  Timoteito.  Ah,  ah  !  (mysteriously?) 
What  a  number  of  reminiscences  these  venerable 
precincts  awaken  !  All  that  you  see  is  impregnated 
with  love  and  madness,  with  alcohol  and  merriment. 
I  could  tell  you  :  on  this  divan  Juan  one  day  fell 
down  drunk  :  in  that  corner  I  fell  one  night  in  the 
same  condition  :  and  on  that  balcony  we  both  fell  one 
morning  in  a  similar  situation.  Oh,  most  sacred 
memories  !  Oh,  beloved  images  of  the  past  1  (To 
PACA).  What  are  you  doing  here  ? 

PACA.  I  am  putting  everything  in  order,  senor. 

TIM.  And  now  you  will  see  such  a  panorama.  That 
balcony  looks  toward  the  East,  and  you  see  the 
Guadalquivir — "  Sevilla,  Guadalquivir,  how  you  do 
torment  my  mind ! "  The  loveliest  girls  of  the 
Sevillian  land  have  breakfasted  here,  have  danced 
here,  have  sung  here,  and  have  got  drunk  here. 

JAV.  Ah,  ha  !  you  amused  yourselves  here  in  fine 
style. 

PACA  sighs. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  101 

TIM.  (turning  round  in  ih  humour).  Have  you 
not  done  ?  Have  you  not  done,  Paca. 

PACA.  Well,  I  remained  to  see — if  you  gentlemen 
wanted  anything,  that's  all. 

TIM.  Nothing,  you  may  go  to  the  kitchen. 

PACA.  Very  well,  Don  Timoteo:  to  the  kitchen. 
Ah  !  my  God  !  (She  takes  a  low  chair  on  to  the 
terrace,  sits  down  and  fans  herself.) 

TIM.  I  tell  you  that  I  can  look  at  nothing  which 
surrounds  me  without  being  moved.  The  girls  from 
Sevilla,  the  girls  from  Malaga,  the  girls  from  Tarifa  ! 
But  let  us  make  a  full  stop.  I  am  perverting  you, 
young  man  :  and  at  my  age  that's  a  villainous  thing. 
But  the  fact  is  that  there  were  certain  girls  from 
Sevilla  and  Malaga  and  Cadiz,  and  certain  girls  from 
Tarifa. 

PACA  gives  a  very  dig  sigh  on  the  balcony. 

Who's  that  sighing  ?  The  devil  of  a  woman,  there's 
nothing  dismal  in  what  we  are  saying — are  you  here 
still  ? 

PACA  (from  the  balcony  and  without  rising).  To 
see  if  Don  Timoteo  wanted  anything. 

TIM.  I  do  want  something,  and  this  gentleman 
wants  something.  Bring  us  a  few  glasses.1 

PACA  rises  and  approaches. 

JAV.  Many  thanks  :  they  gave  me  supper  a  short 
time  ago  :  it  is  now  very  late — and  I  take  nothing 
at  such  an  hour  as  this.  (To  PACA.)  Don't  trouble 
yourself  on  my  account. 

PACA.  Then. 

*  "  Glasses."  The  word  in  the  original,  throughout  this  act 
is  canas  or  canitas.  These  are  conical-shaped  glasses  from 
which  Spaniards  drink  Manzanilla — a  lighter  wine  than  sherry. 


1O2  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

TIM.  Then,  trouble  yourself  on  my  account  Go 
go,  and  bring  that. 

PACA.  Yes,  senor,  yes ;  I  am  going,  Don  Timoteo. 

[Exit  fanning  herself. 

JAV.     Good  heavens  !  Manzanilla  at  this  hour  ? 

TIM.  Yes,  yes,  of  course,  I  know  that  you  are  very 
steady.  Lazarus  writes  dramas  ;  you  write  history ; 
but,  my  friend,  a  glass  is  taken  at  any  historical 
moment  whatever. 

JAV.  At  any  historical  moment  ?  But  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  although  it  be  an  exquisite  morning 
of  summer,  is  that  an  historical  moment  or  a  moment 
to  go  to  sleep  ? 

TIM.  For  the  pleasure  of  tasting,  eh  ?  for  the 
pleasure  of  tasting  a  sweet  little  drop  of  Manzanilla, 
the  twenty-four  hours  of  this  day,  and  the  twenty-four 
of  the  following,  and  those  of  the  next,  are  marked 
down  in  all  treatises,  young  man.  Admit  that  there 
are  no  young  men  nowadays. 

JAV.  How  can  it  be  helped?  There  are  young 
men  who  are  old,  and  there  are  old  men  who  die 
quite  young. 

TIM.  It's  true.  Since  I  came  eight  days  ago  to  the 
country  seat,  my  remembrances  have  become  re- 
freshed, and  I  feel  as  if  I  were  fifteen  years  old. 

JAV.  And  in  a  few  more  days  you'll  feel  as  if  you 
were  fifteen  months. 

TIM.  Halloa !  Halloa !  that  figure  of  speech  is 
called  irony. 

JAV.  A  respectful  irony,  Don  Timoteo.  But  I 
did  not  think  to  meet  you  at  the  country  seat  of 
Don  Juan. 

TIM.  I  had  brought  poor  Carmen  to  Sevilla.  She 
is  very  delicate.  With  those  unfortunate  events — 
with  the  illness  of  Lazarus — and  what  you  know 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  103 


already.  But  when  once  at  Sevilla,  Juanito  was 
anxious  that  we  should  come  and  pass  a  few  days 
here.  And  I,  to  give  that  pleasure  to  Carmen,  and 
to  contribute  to  the  recovery  of  Lazarus — who,  they 
declared,  was  going  on  very  well — I  consented  and 
here  we  are. 

JAV.  Restored  to  youth. 

TIM.  Believe  me,  Javier,  in  what  I  told  you  just 
now  :  there  is  no  longer  any  youth  now  :  Carmen  with 
her  afflicted  little  chest  :  Lazarus  with  his  disordered 
nerves  ;  you  with  your  sedateness  and  your  megrim. 
We  were  of  another  stamp. 

JAV.  Perhaps  it's  because  you  were  of  another 
stamp,  that  we  are  made  after  this  fashion.  But  let 
us  change  the  subject,  Don  Timoteo.  And  so  there 
is  a  complete  reconciliation,  and  a  wedding  in  per- 
spective? 

TIM.  I'll  tell  you,  I'll  tell  you.  But  that  Paca  is 
not  bringing  the  Manzanilla.  (Looking  to  see  if  she 
comes.}  Really  there  was  no  cause  to  be  offended. 
Lazarus  said  what  he  said — in  a  fever  !  You  saw  him 
fall  senseless  at  the  feet  of  Carmen.  What  the  devil 
was  the  meaning  of  that  ?  Go  and  learn  that.  In 
my  time  when  a  man  fell  down  thus,  it  was  decided 
to  be  drunkenness  or  apoplexy,  and  so  medical  science 
became  simplified  and  was  within  the  reach  of  every- 
body. But  in  these  days,  interpret  you  who  can  what's 
the  matter  with  the  man  who  falls  insensible. 

JAV.  Poor  Lazarus  was  very  ill.  However,  they 
say  that  he  is  now  getting  on  perfectly  :  the  malady 
has  passed  the  critical  point. 

TIM.  So  they  say  and  he  seems  very  much  restored : 
but  he  is  always  a  very  extraordinary  person — like  all 
men  of  talent. 

JAV.  And  so  we  shall  have  the  wedding. 


IO4  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

TIM.  Hum— wedding— that's  flour  from  another 
sack.  I  say  nothing  so  as  not  to  distress  Carmen, 
not  Fo  be  disagreeable  to  the  parents,  and  because  I 
would  not  give  the  boy  another  fainting  fit.  If 
Lazarus  recovers  completely  and  comes  back  to  what 
he  was,  and  writes  something  that  will  bring  him  con- 
siderable fame — sufficient  to  prove  that  his  brain  is 
quite  sound — then  the  way  is  clear — eh  ?  Because 
Carmen,  poor  Carmen.  But  this  Paca  is  not  coming  ! 

JAV.  Carmen  is  very  fond  of  him,  is  she  not  ? 

TIM.  I  don't  know— I  don't  know  that  girl,  God 
help  me  !  I  am  taking  her  away  soon :  within  four 
or  five  hours  we  shall  set  out  to  catch  the  train.  And 
before  going  away  I  shall  speak  to  Bermudez. 

JAV.  I  only  saw  Lazarus  for  a  moment,  and  he 
seemed  to  me 

TIM.  How? 

JAV.  Much  better.  Youth  works  miracles.  (Aside.} 
Poor  Lazarus! 

TIM.  It's  true,  it's  true.  I  myself  had— I  don't 
know  what — and  I  was  so  to  say — crazy  for  more 
than  a  year — much  more ;  and  it  passed  off. 

JAV.  Well  nobody  would  think  it — I  mean  nobody 
would  think  that  you  had  ever  had — anything — of 
that  kind  of  infirmity — eh? 

TIM.  Well,  I  had  it,  I  had  it— they  believed  that  it 
had  left  me  an  idiot 

JAV.  Jesus,  Mary,  and  Joseph  ! 

TIM.  But  that  devil  of  a  woman  who  is  not  coming  ! 
She  knew  quite  well  that  the  Manzanilla  was  only  for 
me,  and  she  delights  in  mortifying  me.  She  has  a 
most  perverse  mind.  And  she  was  always  the  same  ; 
you  don't  know  what  that  woman  has  been  ! 

JAV.  Who  ?     She  who  was  here  just  now  ? 

TIM.  Exactly  ;  that  was  one  of  the  most  magnificent 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  105 

women  in  all  Andalusia.     She  was  called  Paca  the 
Tarifena. 

JAV.  Ah  ha  !  who  would  have  said  so  ! 

TIM.  I  should  have  said  so,  Juanito  would  have 
said  so,  Nemesio  would  have  said  so,  and  everybody 
would  have  said  so.  The  Tarifena !  the  girl  from 
Tarifa  ! — she  who  acts  in  this  house  to-day  as  a"~l 
servant  or  little  better,  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago  , 
commanded  like  a  mistress.  Afterwards,  as  always 
happens,  she  rambled  about — rambled  about — and 
farewell  beauty,  farewell  grace,  farewell  magnificence. 
Old  age,  ugliness  and  misery,  the  three  enemies — I'll 
not  say  of  the  soul,  but  of  the  bodies  of  pretty  girls, 
fed  themselves  upon  the  gay  Tarifena.  Five  or  six 
years  ago  Juan  got  to  know  of  it ;  he  felt  sorry,  and  he 
took  her  into  this  country  house,  as  mistress  of  the 
keys  or  something — as  a  matter  of  form.  In  short, 
she  is  in  service  in  the  country  seat ;  but  she  will  not 
be  of  much  service,  for  she  was  always  very  lively, 
but  very  lazy. 

JAV.  Yet,  so  beautiful  ? 

TIM.  A  sun  !  But  women  break  down  early.  We 
men  preserve  ourselves  better.  Who  would  say  that 
I  am  fifty-eight  years  old  ? 

JAV.  Nobody  !  Whatever  else  you  may  be  accused 
of— (Aside.}  Seventy-five  ! 

TIM.  I  should  think  so.  Halloa  !  I  think  Lazarus 
is  coming. 

Enter  LAZARUS  on  the  left.  Behind  comes  Doctor 
BERMUDEZ,  but  at  a  certain  distance  from 
LAZARUS,  as  if  observing  him  and  being  on  the 
watch. 

LAZ.  (looking  at  DON  TIMOTEO  and  JAVIER). 
This  night  we  are  all  sitting  up,  the  sitting  up  of  the 
farewell. 


io6  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

TIM.  I  am  obliged  to  you,  but  there  was  no  need 
for  you  to  trouble  yourself.  Let  us  say  farewell  now  : 
you  go  to  bed  :  and  Carmen  and  I  at  daybreak,  very 
quietly,  without  rousing  anybody,  will  set  out  for  the 
train. 

LAZ.  So,  so  ;  very  quietly,  without  waking  anybody, 
in  the  silence  of  the  night  :  so  you  wish  to  steal 
Carmen  away.  And  so  happiness  is  stolen  away. 
Treachery  !  But  I  am  watching  and  I  shall  watch : 
Lazarus  has  risen,  and  now  he  will  never  sleep  any 
more.  These  eyes  are  very  wide  open  to  see  every- 
thing (tenderly)  :  the  dear  little  head  of  my  Carmen 
(laughing),  the  great,  villainous  head  of  Don  Timoteo. 
To  see  the  day  with  its  splendour  and  the  night  with 
its  gloom.  (Going  to  the  balcony?)  How  beautiful  is 
the  morning  star — is  it  not  ?  It  is  always  there. 
We  seem  to  have  made  an  appointment  with  each 
other.  "  I  shall  appear  in  heaven,"  she  says,  "  and 
do  you  appear  at  the  balcony,  and  we  shall  gaze  upon 
each  other."  I  cannot  gaze  upon  you,  forgive  me ; 
Carmen  would  be  jealous.  She  not  being  at  my  side, 
I  do  not  wish  to  gaze  on  anybody,  I  do  not  care  to  see 
anybody.  (Withdraws  irritably  from  the  balcony  and 
sees  BERMUDEZ.)  Halloa,  dearest  doctor,  were  you 
here  ?  Did  you  follow  me  ?  Did  they  send  you  to 
take  charge  of  me  ?  Well,  look  you,  it  annoys  me  to 
have  a  sentinel  always  in  sight — (Restraining  himself 
and  changing  his  tone)  unless  he  be  so  kind  hearted 
as  my  dear  doctor. 

They  all  advance  to  the  first  entrance. 
BERM.  I  came  with  you  to  beg  you  not  to  sit  up. 
Now  go  to  bed,  take  some  rest,  and  at  daybreak  I 
shall  awaken   you   that   you  may  bid    good-bye  to 
Carmen  and  to  Don  Timoteo. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  107 

LAZ.  That's  what  you  want  !  I  am  not  a  child  :  I 
am  not  to  be  deceived.  How  does  he  who  sleeps 
know  what  he  will  see  on  his  awaking?  If  he  does 
awake !  (Sits  down.) 

TIM.  However.     (Approaching  him.) 

JAV.  (approaching  still  nearer).  I  give  you  my 
word.  .  .  . 

BERM.  (All  surround  him.)  We  all  promise  you 
solemnly 

LAZ.  It  is  useless  —  don't  trouble  yourselves. 
Besides  I  neither  believe  anybody,  nor  trust  in  any- 
body. I  don't  trust  myself,  and  I  am  always  observing 
myself  whether  perchance — in  short,  I  understand 
myself :  then  how  should  I  trust  you  ?  You  perceive 
that  that's  asking  too  much.  And  enough,  enough — 
1  have  said  no. 

BERM.  As  you  please,  Lazarus. 

LAZ.  Moreover,  sitting  up  is  delightful.  What  a 
sky  !  what  a  night,  what  a  river  !  Just  now  we  were 
downstairs  in  the  drawing-room  that  looks  on  to  the 
garden,  my  mother,  my  father,  Carmen,  the  doctor, 
I — (counting  on  his  fingers)  and  Paca  likewise.  All 
seated,  all  resting,  and  somewhat  sleepy,  excepting 
Paca.  In  an  angle  a  lamp :  the  doors  on  a  level  with 
the  outside  :  the  sky  in  the  distance :  the  garden  with 
its  twining  plants  and  its  rose  trees  making  itself  a 
portion  of  the  saloon,  as  if  to  bear  us  company  :  the 
penetrating  perfumes  of  the  lemon  flower,  and  the 
freshness  of  the  river  impregnating  the  atmosphere  : 
little  insects  of  all  colours,  a  few  butterflies  among 
them,  as  if  engendered  by  the  air,  came  from  without, 
attracted  by  the  lamp,  and  fluttered  between  the  light 
and  the  gloom,  as  ideas  revolve  within  me  now  ;  and 
Paca  too  was  fluttering  amidst  us  all.  (A  pause.) 
What,  you  are  laughing  ?  (To  JAVIER.) 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

JAV.  I  am  not  laughing. 

LAZ.  Yes  ;  you  laugh  because  I  said  that  Paca  was 
fluttering  between  my  father,  my  mother,  Carmen  and 
myself.  Well,  I  maintain  it  :  is  it  only  butterflies 
that  flutter  about  ?  Flies  and  gad-flies  flutter  as  well. 
And  so,  as  I  lay  there  with  eyes  half  closed,  Paca, 
with  her  black  dress  and  her  black  mantle  with  its 
fringe,  seemed  to  me  an  enormous  fly.  She  fluttered 
ponderously  from  my  father  to  my  mother — serving 
my  father  with  sherry  and  my  mother  with  iced  water 
— and  between  Carmen  and  myself,  to  worry  me  with 
questions,  and  to  fix  a  flower  in  Carmen's  hair,  rustling 
against  us  both  with  her  mantle  and  its  fringes,  as  a 
fly  rustles  with  its  dark  and  hairy  wings.  She  is  a 
kind  woman  but  I  felt  a  repugnance,  a  loathing,  and 
a  chill,  and  I  came  up  to  stand  and  breathe  on  yonder 
balcony. 

JAV.  And  to  contemplate  the  stars. 

LAZ.  One,  no  more  than  one.  And  such  extrava- 
gant ideas  !  But  we  apprentices  of  poetry  are  thus. 
You  are  right,  Bermudez,  extravagant — very — very — . 
I  was  thinking  of  Paca,  I  was  gazing  at  the  star,  and 
I  felt  an  insane,  ridiculous,  but  unconquerable  desire. 
It  was  to  seize  one  of  my  foils,  to  run  it  through  the 
gad-fly  with  her  fringed  mantle,  as  one  runs  an  insect 
through  with  a  pin,  and  to  burn  her  at  the  light  of 
that  most  beautiful  star.  Like  what  ?  The  putre- 
scence of  humanity  which  is  consumed  and  purified  in 
heavenly  flames.  You  don't  understand  me,  Don 
Timoteo  ? 

TIM.  Well,  I  don't  think  there  is  much  to  under- 
stand —  and  even  though  a  man  may  not  be  a 
genius 

LAZ.  Don't  be  vexed  :  these  are  jokes  :  I  offend 
you  ?  The  father  of  Carmen  ?  when  for  her  sake  I 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  109 

am  ready  to  go  down  on  my  knees  and  to  declare  that 
you  are  young  and  beautiful  and  that  you  have  brains, 
and  to  compel  the  whole  world  to  declare  the  same. 
Your  arms,  Don  Timoteo,  your  arms.  (They  em- 
brace.} You  bear  no  grudge  against  me,  do  you  ? 

TlM.  Dear  me,  why  should  I  ? 

LAZ.  Then  don't  take  away  Carmen  ;  don't  sepa- 
rate me  from  her.  A  sick  man  should  have  his  way 
in  everything  —  and  it  would  make  me  worse,  let 
Bermudez  tell  you.  Is  it  not  true  that  it  would  make 
me  ill  ?  Say  it — say  it  ? 

TIM.  But  you  are  well  now  ? 

BERM.  Quite  well. 

LAZ.  And  you,  what  do  you  say  ? 

JAV.  My  boy,  I  find  you  as  well  as  ever. 

TIM.  And  I  really  must  go  to  Sevilla.  But  we 
shall  soon  come  back  to  be  reunited.  You  are  not  a 
convalescent :  you  don't  require  to  stay  here.  Away 
home  to  work  ! 

LAZ.  (in  the  ear  of  TIM.).  Then  when  shall  the 
wedding  be  ? 

TIM.  For  my  part — any  day — but  that,  let  the 
doctor  say. 

LAZ.  Not  that  man — not  that  man — ah — I  know  him 
— and  yet  let  him  say. 

BERM.  It  depends  on  the  state  of  mind  that  you  are' 
in  :  if  you  are  in  a  sound  state  of  mind,  very  soon.  

LAZ.  Well,  before  you  take  Carmen  away  you  have 
to  decide  it.  The  morning  approaches — it  will  be 
here  in  less  than  two  or  three  hours.  You  see  that 
brightness  ?  It  is  beginning  to  dawn  already,  and  we 
must  sit  up  by  all  means.  Therefore  you  go  in  there, 
into  that  cabinet — and  jyou  fix  the  date.  I  shall  not 
be  in  your  way.  Now  you  see  that  I  can  do  no  more. 
But  you  must  say  when  and  let  me  know  ;  when  I 


no  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

know  it  I  shall  be  more  at  ease.  With  to-day  there 
will  be  one  day  less  :  two  less  :  three — it  is  not  far  off 
now  :  very  little  short  of  the  time :  three  days  off,  two 
days  off,  one  day  off,  it  is  to-morrow,  it  is  to-day — she 
is  my  Carmen  for  ever — she  is  mine — (vehemently], 
Now,  let  who  dare  force  her  from  my  arms  !  Oh  ! 
Carmen  now  belongs  to  Lazarus.  (Changing  his 
tone.}  I  am  saying  what  will  happen — when  you  fix 
the  day — because  by  the  fixing  of  the  day  we  only 
want  two — now  we  are  only  short  of  one — now  it  has 
arrived— all  happy  !  (Embracing-  TlM.  and  JAV.). 
It's  true,  it's  true  !  And  now,  in  there. 

TIM.  For  my  part,  with  much  pleasure,  and  it  seems 
to  me  a  good  idea.  Will  you  have  it  so,  Bermudez^_ 

BERM.  I  am  at  your  orders  —  and  if  Lazarus 
insists 

LAZ.  No  more — no  more — enter — here — and  in  all 
freedom.  Your  little  cabinet — the  balcony  open — 
the  flowers  of  that  terrace  which  are  beginning  to  take 
colour— the  Guadalquivir  which  commences  to  waken 
with  its  silver  lights.  Very  good — very  good — you 
are  going  to  be  perfectly  comfortable — and  all  this 
will  incline  you  to  good  nature.  Don't  be  very  cruel 
— don't  fix  too  long  a  term — for  in  this  world,  what  is 
not  to-day  is  never. 

TIM.  Shall  we  go  in  ? 

BERM.  Yes,  senor. 

They  move  slowly  and  speaking  in  low  tones  toward 
the  right. 

LAZ.  (in  a  low,  energetic  -voice  to  JAVIER).  And 
you,  too,  go.  I  don't  trust  them.  The  wretches, 
they  would  say  never  :  go,  go,  with  them. 

JAV.  But  I 

LAZ.  (BERM.  and  TIM.  are  now  at  the  door).    Eh  ? 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  in 

wait.  Javier  is  accompanying  you,  I  have  requested 
him — because  I  wish  to  have  some  one  who  may  plead 
for  me  and  for  Carmen.  This  you  cannot  deny  me. 

TIM.  I  should  think  not — come — come. 

JAV.  (to  LAZ.).     If  you  insist. 

LAZ.  In  there,  all  three — all  three — and  afterwards 
we  shall  give  an  account  of  all  to  my  mother  and  my 
father  and  Carmen.  Quick — quick 

BERM.  (at  the  door).    You  two  go  in 

TIM.  You  go  in  first. 

BERM.  By  no  means. 

LAZ.  Go  in  any  way  :  I  am  waiting 

BERM.  We  shall  soon  have  done.  Be  calm,  Lazarus, 
be  calm.' 

LAZ. ;(alone).  Yes:  he  is  right:  I  have  need  of 
much  calm.  Outside  there  all  is  calm  :  then  why 
should  I  not  be  calm  as  well  ?  Without  there  is 
twilight  (pressing  his  forehead)  :  within  here  is 
another  twilight.  But  yonder  half  obscurity  will  end 
by  filling  itself  with  light.  And  this — this  ?  I  seem 
to  see  beyond  the  luminous  little  clouds  a  great  gloom. 
There  without  are  worlds  and  suns  and  immensity — 
yet  nothing  of  that  bears  the  least  consequence  to  me  : 
here  within  are  three  insignificant  persons — and  it  is 
they  who  are  about  to  decide  my  destiny.  To  be 
menaced  with  the  danger  of  one  of  those  orbs  that 
whirl  through  space  overwhelming  Carmen  and  my- 
self— there  would  be  grandeur  for  us  in  such  a  fate. 
But  to  be  threatened  with  the  possibility  of  a  doctor 
and  a  fool  putting  me  in  a  cage  and  leaving  Carmen 
outside,  to  fret  her  pale  front  against  the  cold  iron 
bars — this  is  cruel,  this  is  humiliating — and  nobody 
shall  humiliate  me.  I  am  worth  more  than  them  all 
put  together.  I  am  better  than  them  all.  (Interrupt- 
ing himself.}  Better  than  Carmen  ? — no.  Neither  am 


H2  THE  Sox  OF  DON  JUAN. 

I  better  than  my  mother.  And  my  father — my  father — 
he  loves  me  much — more  than  I — silence  !  Yet  if  he 
is  capable  of  loving  more  than  I,  then  he  is  better 
than  I — the  result  is  that  everybody  is  better  than 
Lazarus.  How  is  this  possible?  (Walks  about  in 
— -^  great  agitation?) 

Enter  PACA  with  some  cups  of  Manzanilla. 
Who  is  this  ?     It  is  Paca.    Why  the  result  will  be — 
I  see  it — that  even  that  creature  is  better  than  myself. 

PACA.  Is  not  Don  Timoteo  here  ?  Then  why  does 
he  give  orders  for  nothing?  He  gives  orders  and 
then  he  goes  away. 

LAZ.  Whom  are  you  looking  for  ? 

PACA.  For  Don  Timoteo :  he  asked  me  for  some  cups 
of  Manzanilla,  and  he  went  away  without  waiting  for  me. 

LAZ.  Bring  them,  bring  them.  I'll  take  them. 
Leave  them  here. 

PACA  (putting  them  on  a  little  table).  You, 
senorito  ?  And  if  they  do  you  harm  ? 

LAZ.  Harm  to  me  ?  Poor  woman  !  Look — 
(drinks  a  cup.}  I  drink  and  you  flutter  about. 

PACA.  I  flutter  about,  senorito?  Ah  !  what  things 
you  say  ! 

LAZ.  What  do  you  see  out  there  ? 

PACA.  Nothing. 

LAZ.  Just  so.  Nothing  :  that's  what  we  all  see. 
And  inside  here,  what  do  you  see  ? 

PACA.  Well,  you. 

LAZ.  That's  it,  the  son  of  Don  Juan  drinking  ;  and 
Paca  whirling  around.  (Drinks  another  glass.) 

PACA.  Don't  drink  any  more,  senorito  :  you  are  not 
at  all  well  and  it  will  do  you  harm.  And  Dona 
Dolores  will  be  grieved  and  Don  Juan  will  be  grieved. 

LAZ.  And  I'll  make  the  Manzanilla  grieve.  And 
you,  won't  you  be  grieved  ? 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  113 

PACA.  Why  yes :  for  I  am  very  fond  of  the 
senorito. 

LAZ.  The  result  is  that  everybody  is  fond  of  me. 
Everybody  is  fond  of  me,  and  I  am  fond  of  nobody. 
Ah  I  of  Carmen — yes  :  and  of  my  mother  as  well : 
and  of  my  father  :  and  of  poor  Javier — well,  then  I 
am  fond  of  everybody  —This  (taking  a  cup  or  glass.} 
must  make  it  clear.  (Giving  PACA  a  glass.}  Let  us 
both  make  it  clear. 

PACA  (stopping  him}.     Senorito,  for  God's  sake  ! 

LAZ.  No  ;  it  isn't  for  God's  sake,  it's  for  mine. 

PACA.  If  you  insist.    (Drinks.) 

LAZ.  And  now  I.     (Takes  up  another  glass •.} 

PACA  (stopping  him).  No  ;  not  you. 

LAZ.  Well  then,  you. 

PACA.  Ah !  by  the  most  Holy  Virgin,  you  see  I 
hare  lost  the  practice. 

LAZ.  You  fool,  why  this  is  very  healthy.  It  gives 
you  strength.  I  now  feel  capable  of  anything.  Awhile 
ago  you  seemed  to  me  all  funereal;  now  I  perceive 
your  black  cloak  to  be  all  overspread  with  spangles  of 
gold,  and  fragments  of  rainbow,  like  the  wings  of  a 
butterfly. 

PACA.  Ah,  senorito,  I  have  been  that.    Ask 

LAZ.  Ask  whom  ? 

PACA.  Nobody — anybody  whatever.  Ugh,  I  am 
stifled.  (Lets  fall  the  black  handkerchief  from  her 
head  over  her  shoulders.}  Yes,  senorito — when  people 
said — the  Tarifena — there  was  no  need  to  say  more. 

LAZ.  That  was  a  climax,  eh  ?  Well,  take  another 
and  you  shall  begin  again. 

PACA.  You  see  we  shall  both  be  getting  upset. 

( They  take  the  glasses.} 
LAZ.  Listen,  Tarifena,  sylph  of  former  times,  en- 


ii4  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

chanting  siren  of  our  forefathers,  moth-eaten  memorial 
of  their  joys,  will  you  do  me  a  favour  ? 

PACA.  I  should  think  so.  I  am  loyal  to  the  house, 
and  to  all  that's  in  the  house,  and  to  you,  senorito, 
because  you  are  of  the  house. 

LAZ.  Good  ;  and  to  those  who  are  not  of  the  house, 
no.  Well,  inside  there  are  three  who  are  not  of  the 
house:  Don  Timoteo,  Bermudez,  and  Javier.  And 
those  three  are  working  so  that  I  may  not  be  married 
to  Carmen.  They  say  that  I  am  ill,  that  I  am  a  bad 
fellow,  that  I  would  cause  much  misery  to  Carmen  ; 
in  short,  they  propose  to  break  off  my  wedding — see 
what  infamy  ! 

PACA.  Old  men  never  wish  young  people  to  be 
married  ;  old  men  are  great  scoundrels.  Old  women 
are  quite  the  contrary ;  we  old  women  would  like 
everybody  to  get  married.  Why,  what  does  the 
human  race  exist  for  ?  To  get  married ;  exactly. 
And  you  and  beautiful  little  Carmen  will  make  such  a 
pair  ! 

LAZ.  You  are  very  kind,  very  tender-hearted  ;  you 
don't  wish  any  one  to  suffer  pain.  Take  this  (gives  her 
another  cup} 

PACA.  Ah  !  yes,  senorito,  although  it  doesn't 
become  me  to  talk  about  my  being  tender-hearted, 
I  never  harmed  any  one. 

LAZ.  So  ought  all  women  with  good  hearts  to  be. 
Take 

PACA  (refusing  if}.  I  can't  take  any  more.  I  can't 
take  any  more. 

LAZ.  Then  listen.  That  cabinet  leads  to  the  ter- 
race, and  the  terrace  goes  round  the  house — you 
understand  ? — and  the  window  which  looks  on  to  the 
terrace  is  on  a  level  with  it,  so  that  if  you  go  on  to 
the  terrace  by  here,  and  approach,  you  can  hear 


THE  SON  OK  DON  JUAN.  1 1 5 

everything  ;  and  if  they  wish  to  separate  me  from  my 
own  little  Carmen,  you  come  and  tell  me,  and  I'll 
know  what  to  do. 

PACA  (laughing).  What  good  ideas  you  have, 
senorito.  I  should  think  I  would  do  this  ! — the  vaga- 
bonds !  But  Don  Juan  wishes  you  to  be  married? 

LAZ.  Does  he  not  wish  it !  The  one  who  does  not 
wish  it  is  Don  Timoteo.  The  one  who  wishes  to 
carry  off  little  Carmen  as  soon  as  daylight  comes,  is 
he  !  The  one  who  means  to  strangle  them  all — is 
myself.  And  the  one  who  has  to  make  fools  of  them 
— that's  you. 

PACA.  With  the  very  greatest  pleasure. 

LAZ.  But  first  of  all  go  down  to  the  garden,  enter 
the  drawing-room — my  father  and  mother  will  be 
sleeping,  Carmen  will  be  awake ;  Carmen  does  not 
sleep,  I  know  that ! — and  without  any  one  but  herself 
hearing  you,  tell  her — that  I  am  waiting  for  her ;  tell 
her  to  come  up,  that  at  dawn  her  father  is  taking  her 
away,  and  that  I  want  to  bid  her  farewell.  You 
understand  ? 

PACA.  Yes,  senorito Farewell !    Farewells  are 

very  sad.  I  have  bidden  farewell  many  times,  and  I 
have  always  wept. 

LAZ.  Good.  Well  now  you  shall  weep  again.  We 
shall  all  weep. 

PACA.  Don't  say  that. 

LAZ.  Yes,  you  simpleton,  weeping  relieves  you. 
Take  note  :  laughing  tires  you,  and  weeping  relieves 
you. 

PACA.  Well  now  it's  true.  Ah  !  what  you  do  know, 
senorito  ! 

LAZ.  Take  this  (giving  her  a  glass}.  You  and  I  are 
also  going  to  bid  farewell  to  each  other  :  clink — clink 
ex-Tarifena. 


n6  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

PACA.  To  the  health  of  the  Senorita  Carmen. 

LAZ.  To  the  health  of  the  man  whom  you  have 
most  loved — when  you  were  in  love. 

PACA.  Then  to  the  health— to  the  health  of  all  the 
family ! 

LAZ.  {reversing  the  glass).     Look,  not  a  drop  ! 

PACA.  The  same  with  me. 

LAZ.  And  now  to  call  Carmen — and  afterwards  to 
listen  to  what  those  people  say. 

PACA.  I  am  going  there ;  give  me  another  to  take 
breath. 

LAZ.  Drink,  my  dear,  drink. 

PACA.  You  shall  see  what  I  am.  (Goes  towards  the 
cabinet.) 

LAZ.  No,  not  that  way  ;  I  told  you  by  the  terra ceT~ 
(Making  her  go  out  by  the  terrace.) 

PACA.  Ha,  ha  !  Yes,  I  shall  know  it  all  some  day. 
He  wants  to  show  me  the  way  of  the  house  (laughing). 

LAZ.  Now  quick  ;  and  first  of  all  let  Carmen  come. 

PACA.  At  once, .at  once;  but  don't  make  her  cry, 
poor  little  thing,  poor  little  thing ;  men  like  to  make 
women  cry;  but  she — she — is  such  a  sweet  little  thing. 
Jesus,  how  warm  it  is  !  [Goes  out  by  the  terrace. 

"~~LAZ.  (alone).  I  feel  more  confident — I  find  the 
strength  flowing  into  my  arms.  To  defend  Carmen  I 
need  much  strength.  Well,  I  have  it  now.  Every- 
thing is  dawning — everything  is  rising — everything  is 
returning.  Light  on  the  horizon,  life  to  my  muscles, 
and  Carmen  to  me.  Lazarus  is  Lazarus.  The  moment 
has  arrived  for  the  struggle — for  the  supreme  struggle. 
But  here  one  cannot  struggle.  Everything  is  soft  and 
yielding.  The  carpet  soft,  the  divans  soft,  the  East 
filled  with  gauze  and  tufts  of  cotton  wool.  I  want 
rock  whereon  to  lean  back,  a  sword  to  cut,  a  mace 
to  crush — hardness,  angles,  metals  that  may  offer 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  117 

resistance  to  me — and  let  me  reduce  all  to  powder 
(pressing  his  forehead}.  I  feel  the  blood  whirling 
round  within  my  temples !  (pressing  his  bosom}  fire 
in  my  breast  !  engines  of  steel  in  my  arms  1 

(CARMEN  appears  on  the  terrace  with  PACA  who 
points  her  out  to  LAZARUS,  then  disappears.} 
Carmen  ! 

CAR.  Lazarus  ! 

LAZ.  (strains  her  frantically  in  his  arms}.  Carmen, 
my  own  Carmen.  Now  let  them  say  what  they  like, 
those  imbeciles,  and  let  them  come  to  seek  you. 

CAR.  But  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  My  God  1 
I  don't  understand. 

LAZ.  You  don't  understand  that  I  love  you  more     / 
than  my  life,  and  that  I  have  never  told  you  so  ? 

CAR.  Yes,  you  have  many  times  told  me  so. 

LAZ.  But  in  very  poor  fashion — coldly,  lifelessly. 
The  fact  is  that  there  is  no  way  of  saying  these  things. 
Commonplace  words,  commonplace  phrases  !  "  I  love 
you  more  than  my  life,  more  than  my  soul ;  you  are 
my  happiness,  you  are  my  hope,  my  dream.  .  .  ." 
Pshaw  !  Everybody  says  that.  It  has  become  pro- 
faned on  all  lips. 

CAR.  When  I  heard  you  speak  so,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  you  were  the  only  one  in  the  world  who 
said  such  things. 

LAZ.  No,  you  little  goose,  they  all  say  them.  And 
I  don't  wish  to  say  what  everybody  says ;  because 
you  are  not  like  other  people,  and  for  you  it  is 
necessary  to  invent  other  things.  Let  me  see,  what 
shall  I  invent  ? 

CAR.  What  you  like.  But  while  you  are  invent- 
ing, you  may  go  on  saying  what  you  used  to  say,  for  it 
sounds  well  to  me — and  if  it  doesn't  trouble  you.  .  .  . 

LAZ.  You  will  never  have  understood  how  I  love 


u8  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

you,  for  I  have  not  known  how  to  explain  myself ;  I 
have  not  understood  it  myself  until  now.  I  saw 
surrounding  me  an  immeasurable  horizon,  and  I  was 
lost  in  the  contemplation  of  it  :  worlds  and  marvels 
and  splendours  and  sounds  and  melodies.  But  now 
all  is  obscured,  all  has  become  confined :  a  sombre 
background  which  folds  itself  up,  something  like  a 
stupendous  eyeball  which  becomes  contracted,  and 
in  the  centre  nothing  is  left  but  a  small  circle  of  light, 
and  in  that  circle  is  an  image — it  is  yours ; — now  all 
has  become  blotted  out,  and  there  remains  no  more 
than  Carmen,  and  in  Carmen  I  reconcentrate  all  that 
lies  before  me  of  life,  of  longing,  of  thought,  of  love. 
Let  not  the  eyeball  close  up  finally,  for  then  I  shall 
be  left  in  darkness. 

CAR.  Then  you  love  me  more  than  I  thought? 
What  joy  for  me  ! 

LAZ.  There  is  no  reason  to  be  joyful,  for  they  wish 
Jp_sepajatejas. 

CAR.  Who? 

LAZ.  They.     ( Pointing  to  the  cabinet.} 

CAR.  Why? 

LAZ.  Because  I  have  not  known  how  to  explain  to 
them  what  you  are  to  me,  and  neither  have  you 
understood ;  and  they  believe  that  we  shall  console 
ourselves,  that  we  shall  grow  resigned,  that  there  is 
nothing  more  to  be  said  than,  "  Lock  up  Lazarus, 
take  away  Carmen."  Do  you  consent? 

CAR.  I  ?  No,  never ;  no,  Lazarus,  I  am  not  re- 
signed. I  cannot  do  more  than  one  thing  :  die. 
Well,  I  shall  die.  Can  I  do  more  ? 

LAZ.  No  ;  that  will  do  well  ;  that's  enough. 

CAR.  But  you  can  defend  me. 

LAZ.  Defend  you?  How?  Yes,  I'll  defend  you; 
but  how  ? 


THE  SON  OK  DON  JUAN.  119 

CAR.  Why,  who  threatens  us  ? 

L\z.  I  don't  know.  I  can't  well  explain.  I  am 
now  as  it  were  on  the  boundaries  of  a  desert ;  a  desert 
contains  much  sand,  which  never  ends  ;  much  solitude 
which  is  never  filled ;  much  thirst  which  is  never 
quenched,  and  a  sky  which  becomes  flattened  in  the 
centre  as  if  it  were  about  to  fall,  and  which  never 
falls.  At  least  if  it  did  sink  down  all  would  be  at  an 
end. 

CAR.  Yes,  much  sadness  which  never  ends.  I  felt 
that  when  I  had  doubts  of  you.  It  is  true,  the  world 
was  a  desert. 

LAZ.  Well  in  that  desert  you  gather  up  a  handful  of 
sand  and  you  begin  to  count  the  little  grains — one, 
two,  three,  hundreds,  thousands — and  you  never  finish 
counting.  Yet  there  is  no  more  than  a  handful — and 
you  gather  up  another — and  you  gather  up  another — 
and  the  sand  never  ends.  And  you  run  and  run  ; 
but  no, — onward  to  the  horizon  all  is  overwhelmed 
with  sand. 

CAR.  But  what's  the  meaning  of  this  ?  I  don't 
understand. 

LAZ.  It  means— it  is  very  clear — don't  you  see? 
It  seems  clear  to  me,  yet  you  don't  understand.  It 
means  that  I,  who  had  wild  dreams  of  applause,  of 
glory,  of  gaining  still  more  glory  and  applause  with 
my  Carmen,  I  see  before  me  the  fate  of  having  to 
count  grains  and  grains,  handfuls  and  handfuls  of 
sand,  for  days  and  nights  and  years,  until  the  end — 
if  there  be  an  end.  I  don't  know  if  there  be  an  end. 

CAR.  Lazarus,  Lazarus,  don't  talk  so  ;  don't  look 
in  that  way  ! 

LAZ.  Then  save  me  !  Why  what  did  I  call  you  for 
except  that  you  should  save  me  ? 

CAR.  Yes,  I  will  save  you  ;  but  how  ? 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

LAZ.  Consider  now  whether  you  love  me  so  much. 
Suppose  that  we  are  about  to  say  farewell  for  ever — 
.because  we  are  on  the  confines  of  that  desert — both 
together  at  a  little  fountain — the  last !     It  holds  fresh 
water,  the  last !     On  the  falling  of  the  tube  into  the 
water  it  forms  flakes  of  foam — the  last — and  I  wish 
/to  drink  for  the  last  time  and  to  cool  my  face  and  to 
/  sprinkle  foam  upon  my  lips  that  they  may  become 
/   wreathed  in  smiles.     Help  me— look  at  me — speak — 
<     laugh — sing — weep— do  something,  Carmen,  for  I  am 
now  being  hurried  away  from  you.     I  am  now  going 
into  the  desert  ;   do  something  ;   throw  me  at  least 
what  your  hands  will  hold  of  water,  that  a  few  drops 
may  fall  upon  my  face. 

CARMEN  folds  him  in  her  arms. 

CAR.  But  why  do  you  say  that?  I  don't  under- 
stand. Are  you  sad  ?  Are  you  vexed  ?  Are  you  ill  ? 
These  few  days  past,  this  very  morning,  you  were  so 
well,  so  cheerful,  Lazarus. 

LAZ.  They  say — that  I  am  going  to  forget  you — 
that  soon  I  shall  not  know  you — that  you  will  be  close 
to  me,  and  I — without  suspecting  it — like  a  child — 
like  an  idiot 

CAR.  No,  not  that ! 

LAZ.  But  if  it  should  be  so? 

CAR.  It  will  not  be  so. 

LAZ.  Why  not?  (His  look  begins  to  wander  and 
he  scarcely  hears  what  follows  j  he  assumes  the  face 
of  an  idiot  and  his  arms  fall  to  his  sides.) 

CAR.  Because  I  shall  be  close  to  you — and  will 
you  not  see  me?  Because  I  shall  call  to  you 
"  Lazarus  !  " — and  will  you  not  answer  me  ?  Because 
I  shall  weep  much,  my  tears  will  fall  upon  you — and 
will  you  not  feel  them  ?  I  am  weak  as  a  child,  but 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  121 

children  too  can  hold  on  strongly.  Lazarus,  attend  to 
me;  are  you  not  attending  to  what  I  say?  I  am 
Carmen.  Look  at  me  !  That  pale  little  head  which 
you  used  to  speak  of  is  touching  your  lips.  Look,  I 
am  smiling  at  you.  Laugh  yourself.  Answer  me. 
Lazarus — Lazarus — Awake  !  Do  you  hear  me  ?  What 
are  you  looTcing  at  ? 

LAZ.  Yes — I  know — I  know — but  call  my  mother. 

CAR.  No — I  alone — they  would  separate  us  :  we 
two  alone.  Why  do  you  want  your  mother  to  come  ? 

LAZ.  I  want  to  sleep. 

CAR.  (looking  on  all  sides).  Then  rest  on  me. 
Sleep  in  my  arms. 

LAZ.  You  little  fool,  no.  If  I  sleep  it  must  be  in 
the  arms  of  my  mother.  That's  what  mothers  are 
for.  When  I  awake  I  shall  call  you. 

CAR.  Lazarus ! 

LAZ.  Call  her!  Don't  I  tell  you  to  call  her? 
Obey,  you  selfish  girl.  Don't  you  wish  that  I  should 
have  rest  neither  ? 

CAR.  Yes.  I'll  call  her.  (Walking  to  the  door.} 
My  God ! 

LAZ.  Are  you  going  or  not  ?    Or  must  I  go  myself? 

CAR.  No  ;  wait ;  it  is  that  I  am  not  able.  (Stand- 
ing at  the  door.)  Dolores  !  Don  Juan  ! 

LAZ.  I  said  my  mother — I  only  want  one  person  ; 
one. 

CAR.  Well,  I  was  that  one. 

LAZ.  No,  she — I  can't  say  to  you — Mother  ! 

CAR.  (calling).  Dolores  ! 

LAZ.  (going  towards  her  and  calling).  Mother  ! 

CAR.  They  are  coming  now. 

LAZ.  Several  are  coming.    I  did  not  say  so  many. 

I  shall  have  to  defend  myself,  and,  to  defend  myself 

I  need  to  have  much  courage.    (Drinks  a  glass.) 

6 


122  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

CAR.  Quick  !    Here  !     Dolores  ! 

Enter  DOLORES  and  DON  JUAN. 

DOL.  Why  did  you  call?     Is  it  that  Lazarus ? 

JUAN.  What's  the  matter  with  Lazarus? 

LAZ.  Nothing  ;  Carmen  was  frightened — I  don't 
know  why,  and  she  called. 

CAR.  He  seems  better.    Lazarus,  they  are    here 
\jipw.    Do  you  wish  me  to  remain  also? 

LAZ.  Why  not  ?  Yes,  everybody  about  me.  As  we 
were  downstairs.  My  mother,  my  father,  sweet  little 
Carmen,  I  !  There's  one  short— ah  !  Paca.  I  still 
keep  my  memory.  (Laughing?)  Well,  yes,  we  are 
short  of  Paca.  Ha!  Let  us  sit  down  as  we  were 
before,  and  let  us  wait  till  the  day  arrives.  It  is  now 
about  to  dawn.  Look,  look  what  brightness  there  is 
in  the  distance.  A  great  sitting  up  I  And  why  are 
we  sitting  up  ? 

DOL.  You  wished  it 

JUAN.  Yes,  my  son ;  it  was  you  that  insisted  upon 
it ;  and  when  you  desire  anything,  what  are  we  all  for 
but  to  give  you  pleasure  ? 

LAZ.  We  have  to  bid  farewell  to  Carmen.  A  fare- 
well is  a  very  sad  and  solemn  thing,  a  thing  beyond 
all  consolation,  and  I  have  need  to  be  consoled. 
Come,  mother,  to  this  side ;  come  you  also  (to  his 
father)  to  the  other  side  ;  I  must  be  between  the  two  ; 
and  you  must  both  tell  me  that  this  separation  is  a 
passing  one,  that  we  shall  soon  be  all  reunited  to 
Carmen  for  ever — and,  such  other  things  as  are  said  ; 
though  they  may  not  be  true  they  are  said. 

DOLORES  and  JUAN  are  seated  at  either  side 

of  LAZARUS. 
DOL.  But  they  are  true. 
JUAN.  Why,  nothing  else  was  to  happen. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  123 

CARMEN  approaches. 

CAR.  Yes,  Lazarus,  we  shall  be  reunited  very  soon. 

LAZ.  (angrily).  You  must  not  come  near.  You 
keep  off. 

CAR.  (wiihdrawing  in  pain  and  anguish).  Lazarus  ! 

DOL.  Lazarus,  look  how  poor  Carmen  is  grieved. 

JUAN.  Nay,  come,  my  daughter,  come  ;  Lazarus 
wishes  you  to  come. 

LAZ.  It  cannot  be.  It  is  she  who  is  going  away. 
If  she  is  going  away  she  must  be  at  a  distance.  And 
from  a  distance  I  say  "  Adieu,  Carmen,  adieu ;  I  love 
you  deeply."  ( With  passion!)  Do  you  see  ?  It  is 
not  that  I  do  not  love  her ;  it  is  that  things  must  be 
as  they  are. 

CAR.  (restraining  her  grief,  aside).  Impossible  ! 
Impossible  !  My  Lazarus  ! 

DOL.  (to  her  son).  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 

JUAN.  How  are  you,  Lazarus  ? 

LAZ.  Very  well ;  between  you  two,  very  well,  as 
when  I  was  a  child,  with  the  same  calmness,  the  same 
peace  as  then. 

DOL.  You  remember  ? 

LAZ.  Yes,  for  my  head  is  very  sound.  With  what 
clearness  I  remember  those  times  ! 

JUAN  (to  DOLORES).  You  see?  he  is  well,  the  same 
as  during  all  those  days.  Carmen  has  alarmed  her- 
self without  cause. 

CAR.  That's  true,  without  cause. 

JUAN.  His  head  is  far  more  steady  than  ours.  This 
way — between  the  two. 

LAZ.  No.  I  remember  everything  now  ;  between 
the  two,  no  ;  I  was  alone  with  my  mother  ;  you  were 
not  there  !  Go  away,  go  away.  (Putting  his  father 
away  without  violence?) 


124  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

JUAN.  You  don't  remember  that  well,  Lazarus. 
(With  humility.)  We  were  both  beside  you  many 
times.  (In  a  tone  of  angttish.)  Is  it  not  true, 
Dolores  ?  (In  a  supplicating  manner!) 

DOL.  Yes,  my  dear. 

LAZ.  No — I  must  not  be  contradicted.  I  was  alone 
with  her.  (Embracing  her.) 

DOL.  My  son. 

JUAN.  Why  do  you  put  me  away  ?  Can  I  love  you 
more  than  I  do  ? 

LAZ.  Ah  !  yes — well,  you  are  right,  father. 

JUAN.  You  see  ?    I  was  right ! 

LAZ.  Yes,  once  we  were  as  we  are  now — ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

JUAN.  The  same  as  now. 

CAR.  Oh,  his  look — his  look  !    (Aside.) 

LAZ.  Hush — hush.  As  now — no,  not  as  now. 
My  mother  was  dishevelled,  weeping,  but  very  beau- 
tiful, and  you  haughty  and  disdainful,  but  gay  and 
elegant.  Away  !  and  she  weeping,  sobbing,  and  you 
laughing  ;  and  you  quarrelled — how  you  quarrelled  ! 
— it  was  terrible. 

JUAN.  No. 

LAZ.  Yes.     I  see  it  now. 

CAR.  (aside).  His  look  !  How  he  stares  on  every 
side  ! 

JUAN.  Don't  be  angry — but  you  don't  remember 
well. 

LAZ.  (angrily).  I  must  not  be  contradicted.  You 
quarrelled.  I  know  it — I  see  it — as  I  still  feel  that 
terror. 

JUAN.  Lazarus  ! 

DOL.  (to  JUAN).  Be  quiet. 

JUAN.  Well,  then  we  quarrelled — a  little  dispute. 

LAZ.  (laughing).  No — no — it  was  not  a  little  dispute. 
It  was  a  desperate  fight ;  you  quarrelled  in  deadly 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUA\.  125 

^  —  -  — 

earnest.  And  you,  father,  wished  to  take  hold  of  me 
—  and  you  took  hold  of  me  —  and  gave  me  a  caress. 
(Laughing?)  Come,  come,  you  were  not  so  bad. 

JUAN.  You  see,  Lazarus,  you  see? 

LAZ.  But  my  mother  tore  me  out  of  your  arms,  and 
she  pressed  me  in  her  own,  and  said  to  you  :  "  Off 
with  your  hold  ;  go  away  ;  go  and  enjoy  yourself  ;  go 
and  get  drunk.  Leave  him  to  me." 

JUAN.  No,  Lazarus  —  I  think  not  —  as  you  were  such 
a  child  you  don't  remember. 

DOL.  (to  JUAN).  Silence  ! 

LAZ.  And  you  cried  out  :  "Well,  then,  remain  with 
him,  and  much  good  may  he  do  you  !  Much  good  !  " 
What  contempt  !  and  you  pushed  me  away. 

JUAN.  No,  no,  that  I  did  not.     I  never  did  so. 

LAZ.  Yes. 

JUAN.  No. 

LAZ.  (angrily}.  I  say  yes.  You  pushed  me  —  leave 
me,  father  ;  leave  me  alone  with  my  mother.  (Putting 
him  away.)  There,  there,  far  off—  far  off—  with  Car- 
men. 

JUAN  (withdraws  and  embraces  CARMEN).  Oh,  my 
Lazarus,  my  Lazarus  ! 

LAZ.  (laughing,  to  his  mother).  There  are  the  exiles 
in  their  valley  of  tears. 

CAR.  It  is  not  possible  —  it  is  not  possible  !  Let 
them  come  —  let  them  come  ;  jet  them  save 


_ 

JUAN.  Yes  —  let  them  save  him. 

LAZ.  (to  his  mother).  Now,  with  you. 

DOL.  With  me  —  always  with  me. 

LAZ.  Always  with  you  !  No,  that's  not  true  neither. 
Why,  Lord,  you  people  don't  remember  anything  ; 
here  nobody  remembers  a  thing  but  myself.  You 
sent  me  away  —  very  far  —  to  an  accursed  college.  I 
wished  to  stay  with  you,  and  you  said,  "  Let  them 


126  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

take  him  away,  let  them  take  him  away ! "   He  (point- 
ing to  his  father)  said,  "  Stay  with  your  mother,"  and 
he  went  away.    You  said,  "  Let  them  take  him  away,1' 
and  you  remained  alone.   Both,  bojhjrfjrpU-seParated 
yourselves  from  me.    Oh,  I  remember  all  this  very 
well,  and  until  now  I  had  never  called  it  to  mind. 
Something  seems  to  be  melting  within  my  brain ; 
something  goes  on  sweeping  away  the  ruins  of  all 
ideas  of  the  present ;   and,  as  amid  soil  which  the 
torrent  drags   along,   there   spring  to  light  ancient 
moulds,  so  within  here  there  rushes  up  the  entire  world 
^_pf  my  childhood.     So  it  is,  and  I  remember  every- 
l     thing.     I  fell  asleep  night  after  night  without  a  kiss 
\    from  either  of  you.     Morning  after  morning  I  awoke 
Ljvithout  a  caress  from  any  one.    Alone  I  lived — alone 
I  shall  continue  to  live ;  go,  mother,  to  those  yonder. 
(Putting  her  away  gently?) 

DOL.  (to  JUAN).  Ah !  through  you !  (Turning back.} 
Lazarus ! 

GLAZ.  I  have  said  that  I  wish  to  be  alone.  I  love 
rou  dearly,  but  take  notice  that  things  have  to  be 
>recisely  as  they  are. 

DOL.,  CAR.,  and  DON  JUAN  are  together;  LAZ. 
contemplates  them  with  a  vague  smile  j  then  he 
continues?) 

Thus  we  are  as  we  should  be.    Each  one  in  his  place 
— to  every  one  his  own.     But  I  don't  want  to  be  so 
lonely  either.     Let  Paca  come — Paca  ! 
JUAN.  Whom  is  he  calling  ? 
LAZ.  Her.    Paca  ! 


Enter  PACA. 
PACA.  Senorito. 

LAZ.  Come  ;    here — very  close.     ( To  the  others.} 
Now  I  am  not  alone,  you  see,  father?    Now  I  have 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  127 

company,  and  merrier  company  than  yours — you  who 
are  sad  and  gloomy  as  death.  Take  a  glass,  Paca, 
and  give  me  another,  and  let  us  drink  as  we  did  a 
short  time  ago. 

DOL.  Lazarus  ! 

PACA.  Senorito,  I  drank  a  great  deal,  and  now  I 
don't  know — now,  my  head  is 

LAZ.  Yes,  I  insist  on  it — you  and  I. 

JUAN.  Good  God  !    No. 

LAZ.  Why  not?  Ah,  you  egoist,  that  have  your 
own  enjoyment  and  don't  wish  others  to  enjoy  them- 
selves. Well,  I  too  wish  to  enjoy  myself.  My  life 
is  drawing  to  a  close,  and  I  must  take  advantage  of 
that !  Drink,  Tarifena,  drink,  and  laugh,  and  dance, 
and  twirl  about.  And  tell  me  of  your  merry,  youthful 
days — something  that  will  cheer  me,  something  to  fire 
my  blood,  which  I  now  feel  turning  cold.  Laughter, 
orgies,  dances,  loves — something  that  may  shake  my 
nerves,  which  I  now  feel  to  be  growing  torpid.  Come, 
Tarifena,  give  me  life,  for  I  am  young,  and  I  wish  to 
live. 

JUAN.  No  more,  no  more — I  cannot  see  this.  I 
cannot  hear  this. 

DOL.  Oh,  God  ! 

JUAN  (rushes  away  from  the  others  and  approaches 
PACA,  seizing  her  by  an  arm}.  Go  ! 

LAZ.  (holding  her  also).  She  shall  not  go. 

JUAN.  I  command  it. 

LAZ.  And  I  also. 

JUAN  (to  PACA).  By  the  salvation  of  my  soul,  if 
you  don't  go,  I  shall  throw  you  from  that  balcony  into 
the  river.  Look,  you  don't  know  yet  what  I  am. 
Quick ! 

LAZ.  (fiercely).  I  have  said  no  !  Do  you  take  a 
*  e  light  in  tormenting  me  ? 


128  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

JUAN  {falling  on  his  knees  at  the  feet  of  his  son}. 
Lazarus,  for  the  love  of  God  let  this  woman  go  away. 

LAZ.  Poor  man  !  Ah  !  those  white  hairs.  (Fondling 
them.}  And  he  is  weeping.  Poor  dear  father  !  Well ! 
you  now  see  how  grieved  he  is.  Go  away,  woman,  go 
away — since  it  must  be  so. 

PACA  withdraws. 

JUAN.  Oh — my  Lazarus — my  happiness — my  chas- 
tisement ! 

LAZ.  I  don't  want  to  chastise  you  ;  I  don't  want  to 
chastise  anybody.  What  I  desire  is  that  we  should 
all  be  merry.  Come,  woman,  you  now  see  that  nobody 
wants  you  ;  go  away.  Have  you  not  heard  ? 

PACA.  First  of  all,  I  have  to  tell  what  those  people 
(pointing  to  the  cabinet}  are  saying  ;  you  ordered  me. 

LAZ.  (in  astonishment}.  I  ? 

JUAN  (rises}.  What  do  they  say  ? 

They  all  surround  PACA. 

PACA.  Wicked  things.  That  they  won't  let  these 
two  be  married. 

CAR.  My  God  ! 

JUAN.  Why  ?    Speak  ! 

DOL.  Quiet! 

JUAN.  Say  it  low  ! 

PACA.  Because  the  senorito  is  about  to  have  his  last 
attack,  and  all  will  be  at  an  end  with  him  ;  and  you 
— (to  CARMEN)  your  father  is  now  going  to  take  you 
away. 

DOL.  Ah  !  (runs  to  embrace  her  son,  who  has  fol- 
lowed with  his  gaze  the  group.} 

CAR.  (desperately).  No  !     I — with  him — for  ever. 

JUAN  (rushing  to  the  cabinet}.  Bermudez  !     Here  I 

PACA  (aside}.  It's  well  that  they  should  know  it. 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  129 

Enter  BERMUDEZ,  DON  TIMOTEO  and  JAVIER. 
JUAN.  Bermudez — save  my  son  and  demand  of  me 
my  life,  my  soul — all  that  you  wish — what  shall  I  not 
give  you? — but  save  my  Lazarus. 

DOLORES  runs  to  meet  BERMUDEZ  ;  CARMEN  alone 
remains  with  LAZARUS. 

DOL.  Bermudez,  one  hope  !    One  hope  ! 
BERMUDEZ,  followed  by  DOLORES  and  DON  JUAN, 
approaches  LAZARUS.  TlMOTEO  advances  towards 
CARMEN.    JAVIER  stands  apart. 

TIM.  Come,  Carmen ;  my  daughter,  come.  It  is 
getting  late. 

CAR.  No.    With  him  ;  I'll  not  leave  him  so. 

TIM.  It  is  necessary — for  heaven's  sake,  girl. 
(Separating  her  from  LAZARUS.) 

CAR.  Lazarus,  they  are  separating  us. 

LAZ.  (gathering  himself  together  with  a  supreme 
effort.}  Who?  That  old  man!'  That  scum  of  the 
earth  !  Away,  scum,  to  your  heap  of  refuse  !  I  pass 
on  to  life  !  I  pass  on  to  love  !  Carmen,  to  my  arms  ! 
(Rushes  towards  her,  catches  her,  and  takes  her  to  the 
balcony.  The  others  follow  them.}  Look,  what  an 
horizon  !  What  splendour  !  Come,  melt  your  soul 
in  mine,  enfold  your  body  round  mine,  and  let  us 
mingle  ourselves  among  yonder  rays  of  light.  Yes, 
come,  Carmen,  come  ! 

They  are  separated  by  force,  and  LAZARUS  is  drawn 
away,  and  falls  at  last  on  the  sofa. 

BERM.  The  last  ray  of  light ! 

The  characters  are  disposed  of  in  the  following 
manner: — LAZARUS  on  the  sofa  to  the  right. 
DON  JUAN,  staggering,  falls  on  the  sofa  to  the 
left,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands;  as  if  to  help 


130  THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN. 

hint)  PACA  stations  herself  at  his  side.  Toward 
the  left  TIMOTEO  and  CARMEN  ;  JAVIER  with 
DOLORES  in  the  centre.  BERMUDEZ  stands 
contemplating  LAZARUS.  A  pause.  LAZARUS  is 
motionless. 

JAV.  (in  a  low  voice  to  BERMUDEZ).  Is  he  dead  ? 

BERM.  Would  to  God  he  were  ! 

JUAN.  How  many  mornings  have  I  myself  awakened 
here  ! 

PACA.  True  ! 

JUAN.  Silence  ! — And  my  Lazarus  is  not  awaking. 

DOL.  (to  BERMUDEZ).  I  have  nothing  left  in  life  but 
Lazarus.     In  God's  name,  Bermudez,  think  of  that. 

TIM.  Carmen  ! 

CAR.  It  is  useless,  father.     I  shall  not  leave  him. 

BERM.  Silence — silence  !  The  day  breaks — the  sun 

begins   to   rise — Lazarus   seems   to  be  returning  to 

:    himself.    He  lifts  his  gaze — he  fixes  it  on  the  light 

which  springs  forth.     Let  us  listen — let  us  listen ! — 

This  is  decisive  ! 

JUAN.  To  hear  what  he  will  say?    Will  he  call 
upon  me? 

DOL.  It  is  on  me  that  he  will  call. 

CAR.  He  will  not  call  on  me  ! 

LAZ.  (with  his  face  towards  the  rising  sun}.  Mother  ! 

DOL.  (running  to  him  and  embracing  hint).  Lazarus ! 

LAZ.  (pointing  to  the  sun).  How  beautiful ! 

JUAN  (falling  on  his  knees  by  the  sofa  and  raising 
his  arms :  PACA  holds  him}.  Lord  !  Lord  ! 

DOL.  Lazarus  ! 

/       LAZ.  Most  beautiful !  most  beautiful ! 
>   give  me_  the  sun  ! 

DOL.  Ah  !— My  God  ! 

The  sun  ! — the  sun  ! — I  want  the  sun  ! 


THE  SON  OF  DON  JUAN.  131 

JUAN  (still  on  his  knees j  falls  against  the  sofa: 
P  ACA  holds  hitn).  My  boy  ! 

DOL.  (embracing  LAZARUS).  My  darling  ! 

CAR.  (wildly  embracing  her  father,  who  subdues 
her).  Lazarus  ! — My  life  ! 

BERM.  For  ever ! 

LAZ.  Mother — the  sun  ! — the  sun  ! — give  me  the 
sun  !  (He  says  this  like  a  child,  and  with  the  face  of 
an  idiot.} 

JUAN.  I  also  asked  for  it.  Jesus  ! — my  Lazarus,  my 
Lazarus ! 

LAZ.  Give  me  the  sun  !  Mother,  mother — the  sun  ! 
For  God's  sake — for  God's  sake — for  God's  sake, 
mother — give  me  the  sun  ! 


THE  END. 


©tenant 

UNWIN   BROTHERS, 
CHILWORTH  AND  LONDON. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


30112084202842 


